


Entre Nous (Between Us)

by hogwartswitch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Rugby, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Ballet, Beating, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Break Up, Broken Bones, Chance Meetings, Character Death (Not John or Sherlock), Come Eating, Come Shot, Dancing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Fights, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Foot Massage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Injury Recovery, John Plays Rugby, John Watson is a sexy beast, John is smooth, John wears rugby shorts, Johnlock Roulette, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, New Year's Eve, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Red Pants, Reunions, Rimming, Rugby, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Simultaneous Orgasm, Slow Build, Slow Dancing, Stalking, Strangulation, Violence, Voyeurism, balletlock, moriarty is a creep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/pseuds/hogwartswitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter with a blonde stranger on New Year's Eve in London leaves ballet dancer, Sherlock Holmes, breathless.</p><p>Five years later, he meets a rugby-playing doctor who turns his world upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: New Year's Eve

  
_"Il n'y a qu' un bonheur dans la vie, c'est d'aimer et d'être aimé."_  
\--Georges Sand

The noise of the crowd was deafening; voices surging in volume, a mix of accents and languages flying around. The excitement was palpable as Sherlock Holmes weaved his way through the crush of people on Westminster Bridge. Above him, speakers blared music and announcements from the BBC as the crowd waited for the New Year's Eve countdown to begin. Bodies jostled against each other and Sherlock found himself being bumped and nudged along, floating adrift in a sea of people.

Finding a pocket of empty pavement at the edge of the throng, Sherlock caught his breath. Bending his knees, he tensed his calves and pushed himself up off the sidewalk, his lithe, dancer's body leaping into the air several feet off the ground. He quickly scanned the crowd and, spotting a flash of red and white, hollered "Molly!"

Landing back down, he waved an arm frantically and shouted Molly's name again. His dance partner and friend squeezed out of the crowd a moment later. Her shiny brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and secured with a red and white scarf that matched her fitted, striped jumper. She carried her jacket over one arm and her face was flushed with excitement.

"This is fun, isn't it?" She shouted to be heard over the roar of voices around them.

Sherlock smiled crookedly and linked his arms with Molly's. "I'm not sure we have the same idea of fun."

Punching him lightly on the arm, Molly laughed. "Live a little! It's exciting... really gets my blood pumping!"

Sherlock laughed as she bounced back into the crush, dragging him with her. 

***

"Christ, remind me why we're here again?" John struggled to see over the throngs of people as he and Greg stood at the edge of the crowd.

"Hey, it's not so bad." Greg grunted, leaning against the railing of the bridge. "Thought you needed to get your nose out of your medical books."

John pulled a face. "You mean you decided to waste away my valuable studying time to come stand in the cold and freeze our bollocks off while being surrounded by drunk idiots?"

"All work and no play...." Greg muttered, eyes flicking over the people nearby. Though he knew how to have a good time, Greg never could fully shake his job as a police constable. He'd only been on the job for six months, but had wanted to work for the police his entire life. Even now, though he looked relaxed, he was on alert and observing the people around them.

John huffed and checked his watch. "Do we really have to stay for the fireworks? I've got a game early tomorrow."

"You're playing rugby on New Year's day?"

John shrugged. "Well... yeah. No one wanted to cancel practise."

"If I wasn't working, I'd be tempted to come watch everyone with a hangover try to play rugby."

Laughing, John kicked at his friend's foot. Greg slid smoothly out of the way, a teasing grin on his face.

"Thought Mary was meeting up with you?" Greg asked.

"Nah, I think that's over. Might call Sarah up this weekend, though. Or James."

"Jesus, John! Going for every flavor, eh?"

"Hey, it's just a little fun. And I'm careful. I'm a doctor, remember? I know how to take care of myself!"

" _Almost_ a doctor." Greg chided.

"Close enough." John stuck his tongue out at his friend.

"Mature."

"You know it!" John patted his jacket and a look of panic crossed his face. "Shit! My phone's gone!"

"When'd you last have it?" Greg scanned the ground around them.

"I haven't needed it since I got here. Damn it, I just got that phone!"

***

Sherlock's foot bumped into something, sending it skittering away. Bending to retrieve the black square, he saw it was a mobile, slightly scuffed. "Bet someone misses this."

Molly, who was leaning back and fanning herself after an exuberant session of jumping and dancing to the music with anyone who would join her, cracked open one eye. "Hmmm?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, waving dismissively at her. "You catch your breath."

He pressed a button on the phone and woke it up. Swiping to unlock it, he started scrolling through contacts. Two of the listed contacts had exclamation points in front of them so that they were at the top of the list. He could either call "! Mum and Dad" or "! Greg".

Dismissing "Mum and Dad" as being likely unhelpful at nearly midnight on New Year's Eve, Sherlock tapped Greg's name and held the phone up to his ear, plugging his other ear with a finger.

"'Lo?" A faint voice sounded after a few rings.

"Er... hello, is this Greg?"

"Can't hear you, mate! I'm in a crowd."

Tamping down impatience, Sherlock raised his voice. "I'm trying to find the owner of this phone!"

"What? Phone? Oh!!" The voice got even quieter as the man at the other end of the line must have turned his head. "Oi, John! Someone's got your phone!"

A muffled rustling and a clearer, louder voice came on. "Hello? You've got my phone?"

"Yes, I found it on the ground on Westminster Bridge."

"Oh, great! You just saved the day! Where are you? How can I find you?"

"Erm... I'm still on the bridge..." Sherlock looked around for anything that would identify his position.

"This crowd is infuriating." The voice on the phone groused. "Can you get to the edge of the bridge? The one farthest away from the Eye? And walk towards the center?"

"I can do that." Sherlock edged in the direction the voice instructed, pushing past bodies writhing to music. "How will I know when I see you?"

"I'm kind of stocky. Blonde hair. I'm wearing a blue-striped jumper. What about you?"

"Tall, black hair. I'm wearing black jeans and a black long-sleeved t-shirt."

"A bit fond of black, eh? Or are you the prince of darkness?"

Sherlock smirked, even though the stranger couldn't see him. "Black is easy. I don't have time to fuss about clothing."

"And here you are." A short man with sandy, windblown hair and blue eyes approached, pulling a phone from his ear. "Thank you."

Sherlock ended the call and handed the man the phone. "No problem."

Taking the phone, the stranger extended his other hand to Sherlock. "I'm John Watson, by the way."

Hesitating a moment, then taking the warm hand in his, Sherlock smiled. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Wow, that's a mouthful!" John's eyes crinkled when he smiled and he licked his lips in a way Sherlock found extremely attractive.

"My parents are... creative." Sherlock shrugged.

John's eyes roamed Sherlock's body, taking in his entire length. The tight jeans that hugged his thighs and showed off his dancer's muscles, the equally tight shirt stretched across his chest. His milky skin that contrasted so well with the black curls always falling in his eyes. John licked his lips again, clearly appreciating the view.

"Enjoying the night?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him and gave his patented icy stare that usually scared everyone away.

Instead of backing down, John sidled a little closer and leaned in. "No, in fact, it's been tedious. But it could get a little better?"

Gazing down at him through half closed eyes, Sherlock decided he wouldn't mind playing the game. "What would you suggest?"

"We could watch the fireworks? They should start the countdown in a few minutes." John checked his watch. "And after... I know a little coffee shop nearby that stays open all night? Coffee, maybe dessert?"

"Does this coffee shop serve dessert?"

"Nope." John winked.

Impressed with the shorter man's confidence, Sherlock leaned his head back and laughed. "Right. Okay, why not?"

John came closer, bumping his hip against Sherlock's and snaking his hand around his waist. "Do you say yes to all the strangers with lost phones?" He asked coyly.

"You're the first." Sherlock tried to think of something witty to say, but the pumping of his blood distracted him.

"So I'm special!" A delighted grin crossed John's face.

Enjoying the feel of the hand resting at his waist and toying with his belt loops, Sherlock hummed deep in his throat. "You're very special."

John laughed, increasing the fan of crinkles around his eyes and mouth in a way that made Sherlock want to touch each one.

From above, the music faded and was replaced with an announcer starting the countdown. In unison, the crowd began to chant: "10... 9... 8..."

The swell of voices grew, the vibrations thrumming at the bottom of Sherlock's chest.

"...7...6...5..."

Sherlock locked eyes with John and exchanged a silent question.

"I'm keen if you are!" John shouted to be heard over the chanting.

"...4...3...2..."

Nodding and leaning forward, Sherlock brushed his lips softly to John's. The throng of voices cried out "...1! Happy New Year!"

Fireworks exploded frenetically above the London Eye as John and Sherlock deepened the kiss. John's hand slipped under Sherlock's shirt and tripped lightly up his ribs. The rough skin of his fingers felt good against Sherlock's flesh. He gripped the back of John's neck and let his other hand roam lower to cup his arse, squeezing lightly and eliciting a decidedly flirtatious giggle from John. Their lips parted and tongues met, exploring each other's mouths. John tasted clean and minty, his lips surprisingly soft and gentle. The kiss continued until it stole away Sherlock's breath and he had to pull back, gasping. The fireworks were over and the crowd milled around, people gathering their things and trying to find the best way to leave.

"You said something about coffee?" Sherlock breathed, staring at John's lips, wet and pink.

"Er...." John glanced around, disentangling himself from Sherlock. "This way."

Sherlock tried to follow John as he darted into the throng of people, but just as he did, a particularly large section of the crowd surged by, boisterous yells and raucous cries going up as a large group of drunken university-aged boys ran by. Sherlock was knocked back and he lost sight of John's blue jumper.

"John?" He called, scanning the bobbing heads.

No answer came back to him and though he walked in the direction John had pointed, after twenty minutes of fruitless searching, he gave up. The coffee shop - and John - lost to him.

"There you are!" Molly jogged up behind him. "Been looking all over! Why're you over here? We need to go the other way!"

Feeling defeated, Sherlock allowed Molly to pull him in the opposite direction. As Westminster Bridge emptied and the first hour of the new year ticked by, Sherlock Holmes headed home, alone.


	2. Five Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sprained ankle leads to a reunion.

At the barre, Sherlock stretched his hamstrings and flexed his slipper-clad feet. He wore a simple black tank unitard that left his shoulders and collarbone exposed. Arranging his arms and feet into fourth position, he nodded at Molly, who stood by the stereo system. She pressed a button and the strains of classical music floated through the studio. Pushing away from the barre and lifting his leg behind him, he launched into a tour jete, scissoring his legs quickly before landing gracefully on the floor. The music picked up and Sherlock moved into a grande battement, followed by a cabriolé. Covering the span of the studio floor in several moves, Sherlock returned to the center, finishing with a series of barrel turns and, as the music faded out, sunk to the floor in a finishing pose.

"You've really improved on your jete." Molly said, padding over to the barre and propping her leg up to begin stretching.

Standing up, a slight sheen of sweat making his skin glow, Sherlock smiled at his partner. "Thanks, Molly."

"Are you going to try out for a part in the latest production?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "I don't know...."

"Oh, c'mon! You've been with this company for a couple of years now! You can't spend your whole time as a background dancer. That's not what you want, is it?"

"No, I guess not." Sherlock returned to the barre and began stretching again. "I'll think about it."

"I think you have the shot at a solo." Molly said slyly. "Especially the way Jim looks at you!"

Sherlock stuck his tongue out just as their ballet master, Jim Moriarty, strolled into the studio. His dark eyes alighted on Sherlock, hungrily roaming up and down his body. Sherlock felt his face flush as he straightened and tried to avoid eye contact with the man.

"I see we have some early birds!" Jim trilled. "Eager to practice?"

Molly widened her eyes a bit at Sherlock, trying to get him to smile, then aimed a grin at their teacher. "Yes, sir! Just warming up."

"Good, good." Jim rubbed his hands together and paced in front of them. "Care to show me what you've been working on?"

He approached Sherlock and reached out a hand to stroke his shoulder. Sherlock jumped at the touch, his flesh prickling with goosebumps, but steeled himself not to jerk away.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock nodded. "S-sure. Molly, the piece we worked on earlier?"

Molly returned to the stereo and pressed another button until the opening notes of Andrea Boccelli's Con Te Partiro echoed off the studio walls. Taking their positions, Sherlock and Molly moved fluidly into the routine they'd practiced together several times. Sherlock spun Molly around him, then brought her up in an adagio lift. Together, they performed several grande jetes across the studio floor. Their bodies moved in perfect unison, a product of years of practicing together. As the song came to an end, Sherlock lifted Molly, her legs bent and stretched behind her and they bowed towards the floor.

"Beautiful. Simply beautiful." Jim walked around them, studying their form. He reached out and patted Sherlock's arm, an intimate smile crossing his face.

Sherlock set Molly back on her feet and stood to attention. "Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps I could just correct your position for your jetes just a little?" Jim asked, walking behind Sherlock.

Sherlock licked his lips nervously, but acquiesced. "Of course, sir."

"If you start with your legs like... so...." Jim pressed his body against Sherlock's, nudging his legs apart with his thigh. "And your arms should be like this." He caressed Sherlock's skin before guiding his arms into the proper position. "It will be easier to launch yourself into the grande jete. There. Show me now?"

Sherlock felt dizzy from the stress of being so close to Jim Moriarty. Though Sherlock had been at this ballet company for a while, Jim Moriarty was a new ballet master, hired only a handful of months ago. He had taken an instant liking to Sherlock and his advances were growing bolder. Usually confident, Sherlock found himself cowed at Jim's domineering personality and unable to voice his growing apprehension. Now, he steadied himself, trying to focus only on the grande jete he had been asked to perform.

Gathering his strength in his legs, Sherlock took a few steps, pushing himself off the floor. But as he did so, his foot faltered and he flubbed the move, barely getting himself off the ground. As he landed, his ankle twisted beneath him and a sharp pain shot up his calf. Crying out, Sherlock crumpled to the floor, his ankle throbbing.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried, running to him. "Are you okay?"

"No." Panted Sherlock, the pain sharpening. "I landed wrong... I did something to my ankle."

"Oh, dear." Moriarty fluttered around them. "We'll need to get you to a doctor to get that checked out. Should I call someone?"

"It's okay, sir." Molly said, helping Sherlock to his feet and letting him lean his weight on her. "I drove us both here. We'll have to miss class, but I'll drive him to the A&E department."

"Bless you, Molly." Moriarty simpered. "Sherlock, do take care. I hope your ankle isn't hurt badly."

Too pained to say much of anything, Sherlock nodded as Molly helped guide him out the door, limping.

"God, he's a creep." She hissed as soon as they were out of Jim's ear-shot.

"He made me nervous." Sherlock gasped out. "I think that's why I messed up that jete."

"Well, he'd make anyone nervous." Molly snapped. "I wish you'd say something to him. Or go to the director."

Trying to maneuver himself into Molly's small hatchback, Sherlock grimaced. "I don't want to lose my place in the company."

"I know... but...." Molly blew a stray hair out of her eyes. "Oh, let's deal with it later, okay? For now, let's just get you some medical help."

***

"Oi, John! You playing this weekend?" Mike Stamford grinned as he passed John in the hospital's hallway.

John returned the smile and waved the chart he held in his hand in Mike's direction. "Going to try! Don't want another loss against our team!"

"Oh, ho! Confident, are we?"

"Don't you know it!"

Mike laughed and continued on his way while John checked his notes. He was six months into his residency at the hospital and enjoying it thoroughly. It helped that there was an amateur rugby team organized by some of the doctors on staff. They practiced on weekends and once a month played against other amateur teams. This weekend they were playing against a team of paramedics and John was looking forward to venting some steam and trouncing them.

Arriving at his next patient, he plucked the chart off the wall and took note of the last name.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." He pushed his way through the curtain. "I'm Doctor Watson and...."

He trailed off as he locked eyes with the brilliant blue gaze of Sherlock Holmes. "Oh! It's... you!"

Sherlock, cranky and distracted by pain, furrowed his brow in confusion. "Do I know you?"

"Well, I didn't think I was _that_ unmemorable!" John chuckled. "We met five years ago? New Year's Eve?"

"Oh!" Molly, standing behind Sherlock, exclaimed. "Westminster Bridge! You're the guy with the phone!"

Realization donning, Sherlock's cheeks flushed pink at the memory. "I... didn't think I'd ever run into you again."

"It's a small world, eh? I just started my residency here six months ago." John couldn't stop grinning and memories of that night - and the one delicious kiss - flooded to the forefront of his mind.

"Congratulations. Listen...." Sherlock's ankle was throbbing hotly and he felt a wave of nausea crash over him. "I'd love to catch up, but I need a little help here?"

"Of course, I'm so sorry!" Flustered, John squinted at his chart. "You injured yourself dancing?"

"I'm a ballet dancer and I landed on my ankle wrong."

"May I?" John indicated Sherlock's foot and Sherlock nodded.

Kneeling to examine the ankle, John gently prodded and moved Sherlock's foot back and forth, causing Sherlock to hiss through his teeth in pain.

"Hmm." John hummed, palpating the skin. "I think it's probably just a sprain. A fairly good one, too, but I don't think it's grade III, luckily. I'd like you to have an x-ray to rule out anything broken or cracked, but otherwise I can give you a prescription for some painkillers and you'll need to rest it. Plenty of ice and elevation, too. I'd also like to give you a brace for it to help keep it stable."

John scribbled on his prescription pad as he talked. "Let's call in our x-ray technician and get that taken care of now. All right?"

Sherlock nodded and took the prescription John proffered, handing it off to Molly for safekeeping. "Thank you."

"No problem." John grinned crookedly at Sherlock. "It was good to see you again! Take care of that ankle, okay?"

John moved on to tend to other patients and a few moments later a technician arrived with a wheelchair to take Sherlock for his x-ray. Molly followed along as they went down the hall.

"I think he likes you, Sherlock." She said, grinning smugly.

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock grumbled.

"He handed me two prescriptions."

"So?"

"One of them's for painkillers. The other just says 'Dinner?' and has a phone number."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of severe boredom leads to a dinner date.

Molly let herself into the flat she shared with Sherlock and dumped her bag by the bench inside the front door.

"Home!" She called. "You here, Sherlock?"

"Where _else_ would I be?" Sherlock's disgruntled voice replied from the living room.

He slumped in his chair, a dark look clouding his fine features. His ankle was propped on a pillow that rested on the coffee table, an ice pack laid gently over it.

"How's it going?" Molly asked breezily, attempting to ignore Sherlock's foul mood.

"How's it going?" Sherlock mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "I'm fucking bored, is how it's going."

"I brought you a huge stack of books this morning!"

"Yes, and I read until my brains leaked out on the floor. I'm _bored_ , Molly. I want to move around!"

"The doctor said four weeks minimum, and it's only been two and a half!"

"Oh, God!" Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "Bring me a gun so I can shoot myself."

"We are all out of guns, I'm afraid." Molly teased. "What about if I rent a movie tonight?"

"Molly. My arse is going to meld to this chair if I don't go somewhere. Please."

"Oh, Sherlock! It's too hard to take you anywhere with that brace and you stumping along."

"Great, thanks for making me feel like someone's grandfather."

Molly sighed and slumped on the arm of Sherlock's chair, toying with his curls. "You'll be back at the studio soon and able to build up your strength again. Just think how miserable poor Jim is without you to ogle."

Sherlock pulled a face and cast his eyes over to a drooping bouquet of roses. "Speaking of...."

"What'd the card say again?"

"Desperately hoping for a swift recovery, it's just not the same without you. Love, Jim."

"Ugh, inappropriate."

"It is. But surely he's harmless?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I change my mind about him every day. He's not so bad now that you're not around. Mostly just mopes around the studio looking sad."

"Oh, lovely, Molly. That makes me feel so missed."

" _He_ misses you." Molly laughed and patted Sherlock's head. "I miss you, too. And I don't know what to tell you to do about Jim except to go to the director."

"We'll see." Sherlock murmured, then cast pleading eyes up to Molly. "Take me somewhere, please?"

"You are out of luck, mister. I'm teaching an evening ballet class to some five-year-olds tonight. Favor for a friend, and I could use the extra cash."

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh. "Fine. Leave me here to rot."

Hoisting herself from the chair, Molly laughed. "Why don't you call that sexy doctor? What was his name? John?"

"Not interested."

"Why ever not? He had a cute arse!"

"It's always the physical for you, isn't it? I, however, need more than a cute arse to get me going."

Molly crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock. "He's a doctor. He obviously can't be stupid. Call him, you prawn."

Sherlock glared silently at her as she skipped up the stairs to shower and ready for her class. Fumbling for one of the books she'd brought him, Sherlock slipped the prescription note with John Watson's number on it out of the pages and stared contemplatively at it.

***

"Right, so on my count, we're going to practice that 3-Man Switch, yeah?" 

John held up his fingers and counted down from five. At his whistle, his teammates broke apart and ran in a zig-zag, passing the ball between them.

"Great!" John crowed, his t-shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat. He pushed his hair off his forehead and checked his watch. "Let's take five, okay? Get hydrated, we'll come back and run a few more moves.

As his team broke apart, John caught sight of Greg leaning against a bench at the edge of the field. Waving, John jogged over to greet his friend. "Hey, what brings you here?"

"It's my day off and I thought I'd come by and see if you were around and wanted to catch a movie tonight." Greg said. "It's been a rough few days at work and I could use the distraction."

Greg, now an Inspector with the Metropolitan Police, took his job seriously and would often let the stress of active cases weigh heavily on him.

"Sure, I'm keen." John said, grabbing a towel off the bench and wiping some of the sweat from his brow. "We've got half an hour left of practice. Want to stick around?"

Greg nodded and settled himself on a bench to watch the rugby players run through their drills. As John turned to jog back to the field, his mobile buzzed on the bench and Greg picked it up.

"John Watson's phone." He drawled.

"Er... is this John?" A deep voice on the other end asked.

"Nah, this is his secretary. What can I do for you?"

The voice hesitated and Greg laughed. "Sorry, mate. Just having some fun! John's at rugby practice right now. Can I give him a message?"

"Oh... um... no, that's okay."

"C'mon, you called him, surely you have a message for him?"

"Well." The voice grew flustered. "John... um... well, he gave me his number and suggested we might... I mean he and I might...."

"Let me guess, John flirted with you and slipped you his number? And now you think you might be keen to have dinner with him?"

"Er... well... yes."

Greg sighed and threw back his head. "I can tell you now, whoever you are, that John Watson most certainly wants to go to dinner. And there goes my evening plans. Hang on and I'll get him for you."

***

Sherlock pressed his phone to end the call and stared at his mobile, perplexed. Molly, traipsing down the stairs in a black leotard and tights, eyed him warily.

"Found something to do this evening?"

"I think so?" Sherlock said, unsure.

"What's that mean?"

"I think I just made plans to have dinner with Dr. Watson."

***

Angelo's was an out-of-the-way restaurant tucked away on a street that didn't see as much traffic as most of London. Despite that, the restaurant presented a warm, welcoming atmosphere when Sherlock entered, limping slightly. The lighting was dim, but not so dim you couldn't see the menu. The tables had clean white cloths over them and the air was suffused with the aroma of Italian cooking. John Watson waved from a corner table, his menu propped open in front of him.

"You found me!" John said, beaming.

"Indeed." Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at the man.

John leapt from his seat and ran around to pull Sherlock's chair out for him. "How's the ankle? You're keeping it elevated most of the day, right?"

"I thought this was a dinner date, not a doctor's appointment?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

Laughing self-deprecatingly, John blushed and nodded. "You're right. I just wanted to make sure you weren't in too much pain."

"The ankle appears to be healing well, though I can't say the same for my mental well-being if I have to spend one more day off my feet."

"It can be maddening."

"No, I don't think you understand." Sherlock insisted. "I'm a dancer. I'm used to dancing every day. I have been off my feet for nearly three weeks and I'm about to off myself if it goes on longer."

John laughed. "Ah, well, now I know why you finally decided to call me! Couldn't find any better prospects?"

Sherlock had the courtesy to blush. "Well... I'm not exactly keen to start dating anyone at the moment. Focusing on my career, that sort of nonsense."

John nodded, his eyes sparkling. "But you decided to call me anyway?"

A smile curved Sherlock's lips. "Like you said... needed a distraction."

"I've been called worse." John stretched out a hand and took Sherlock's hand in his, rubbing his fingers across Sherlock's knuckles.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and for a moment he couldn't think. "Er... so... what's happened in your life since New Year's Eve?"

"Well, I obviously went on to medical school." John teased. "That's about it, actually. School took up most of my time. Now my residency takes up even more time. I play rugby. Sometimes I go out with blokes I once kissed on Westminster Bridge."

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the hand still rubbing his fingers softly.

"And you? Besides ballet?"

"Same with me... not a lot going on besides that. I joined a new company recently and I'm trying to get noticed enough to score a part in one of the major productions. And sometimes I go out with guys who lose their mobile phones."

"Touché." John laughed. "So we're both busy and we're both interested in each other."

"Sounds about right." Sherlock admitted, not bothering to deny the attraction he felt to the young doctor.

"I don't see why we couldn't have a little fun, then? Go out once in awhile, blow off a little steam?"

"Actually, that sounds kind of nice."

"Right, glad that's settled! How about some food?"

They both ordered and the evening continued in much the same way - playful banter flying back and forth, their conversation flowing easily.

***

John rested his hand softly on the small of Sherlock's back as he propped open the door leading outside with his other hand. "Oof, I'm stuffed."

"Same. But that was delicious, thank you! You really didn't have to pay for me, though."

"'Course I did. I'm the one who invited you to dinner first."

"Thank you, again."

John smiled and nodded while flagging down a taxi for Sherlock. "Take care of that ankle, yeah? If you'd like, I could come help with your physical therapy exercises."

"John Watson, surely you've got a better pick-up line than that?"

"Funny." John chuckled. "No, seriously. I can help? I _am_ a doctor after all."

"Really?" Sherlock smirked. "I wish you'd told me!"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" John was laughing hard now and held up his hands in surrender. "You've got my number if you want help. Although I don't think it's fair that I don't have your number."

As a cab finally pulled to the curb and John opened the door for him, Sherlock smiled. "Well, you'll just have to come over to my place and see if you can get it out of me."

John snagged Sherlock's hand before he could duck into the cab and brought his fingers up to his lips. Brushing them softly with his lips, he smiled, his eyes deepening to an indigo blue. "That," he said, his voice husky. "Is a challenge I'm fully willing to accept."

Sherlock folded his limbs into the cab and waved shyly as it pulled away, leaving John to watch until it turned the corner, out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps Sherlock with a little physical therapy.

Sherlock breathed deeply as he walked along the path to the rugby field, enjoying his first outing without the ankle brace. Checking his watch, he noted that he was running a little early. He'd been texting back and forth with John Watson over the last week and hadn't protested when John suggested they meet after his rugby practice to do some physical therapy on Sherlock's ankle. His ankle felt closer to normal by this point, with only a little weakness if he overdid things. Sherlock idly wondered if John's help would get him back to the studio in time for auditions in a couple of weeks and made a mental note to pick out a performance piece, just in case.

Rounding the corner, the field came into view. Players clad in blue t-shirts and green shorts were darting across the field, tossing the rugby ball back and yelling out encouragement or instructions. From the middle of the crowd, John Watson emerged, t-shirt clinging to his chest, hair mussed, and a grin stretched across his face. Sherlock stopped, his breath catching, and stared as John positioned himself for the next play, the green shorts stretching across his backside in an entirely-too-enticing manner. His well-muscled thighs flexed as he bent his knees, preparing to catch the ball. At a cue from one of his teammates, John took off, a stocky torpedo darting past the other players. Weaving in and out, John passed the ball back and forth, avoiding being tackled. Scoring easily, he cajoled his teammates, clapping them on the back. His eyes caught Sherlock's just then and he raised a hand in greeting, separated himself from the other players, and jogged lazily over to where Sherlock stood.

"Hey, glad you made it! You seem to be walking better!"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Ankle's feeling a lot stronger. You looked pretty good out there." He nodded to the field.

Turning back to look at his team, John grinned. "Thanks! We've got a game next weekend - you should come watch!"

"Maybe I will."

"Let me just grab my bag and we can go." John loped back to the field, calling out good-byes to his team, and returned carrying a small sports bag.

"We didn't discuss where exactly this physical therapy is taking place?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, as they headed away from the field.

John smirked and winked at Sherlock. "Don't worry, I'm not taking you to my place... yet. There's a gym near here that has some equipment that should be useful."

They walked comfortably side by side, exchanging pleasantries about the weather (which was nice), about John's residency (busy), and whether Sherlock ever watched rugby on telly (no). John was in the middle of recounting one of the more exciting games from the last world cup when they arrived at a small fitness center set in a block of stores and take-away restaurants. John checked them in and guided Sherlock to the changing room where he stripped off his sweaty t-shirt. Sherlock tried - but failed - not to stare at John's well-defined muscles, his chest covered with a golden thatch of fur. John slipped on a clean t-shirt and then glanced at Sherlock.

"You changing into work-out clothes?" He asked, taking in Sherlock's black jeans and t-shirt.

"Oh...er... yes, I am." Sherlock blushed. He'd worn ballet leggings under his jeans, so he only had to slip the jeans off and stuff them in his bag. Rummaging in the messenger bag at his side, he pulled out his practice slippers and slipped out of his street shoes. 

"Great, let's get warmed up!" John clapped his hands once and nodded his head in the direction of the weight room.

Sherlock went through his warm-up stretches, then John spotted him on several different weight machines, set at the lowest level so that he didn't strain his ankle again. After fifteen minutes of weights, John guided Sherlock through a series of stretches focusing on flexing his ankle and strengthening his muscles. By the time they finished and returned to the changing room, Sherlock felt thoroughly worked out.

"I think I'm out of practice." He said, sinking onto one of the benches near the rows of gym lockers.

"Well, you haven't been able to do much for the last three weeks. It'll take time to build up that strength. Think you can do those exercises at home?"

Sherlock nodded. "It'll give me something to do besides stare at the wall."

John laughed and sat down next to Sherlock on the bench. "You'll be back to your studio soon, I promise. You've really healed well - and quickly!"

John patted his lap and flicked his eyes to Sherlock's foot. "C'mon. A work-out like that deserves a reward."

Curious, Sherlock smiled and put his foot onto John's lap. John removed his slipper and, using his thumbs, began massaging the sole. He gently flexed Sherlock's ankle, then resumed the foot massage. Sherlock leaned back, hands bracing against the bench, and closed his eyes contentedly.

"Feel okay?" John asked, switching to Sherlock's other foot.

"Mmmm." Sherlock couldn't be bothered to produce any words.

Laughing, John let his hand stray to Sherlock's calf, fingers stroking lightly. "Good. Listen, I want to grab a quick shower... join me?"

Sherlock's eyes popped open. "Uh...what?"

"We're both adults, right?" John teased. "And it's just a shower at the gym."

Licking his lips, Sherlock decided he didn't mind playing this game. "Sure... why not?"

The showers were in a big, open space, the tile interrupted with a shower head every couple of feet. Currently, the area was deserted. John stripped off his clothes efficiently, revealing a strong back and tight ass marred only by twin dimples on both cheeks. Sherlock made no pretense not to look at all of John's body this time, his mouth going dry when John turned and shot Sherlock a cheeky grin.

"You joining me, or just appreciating the view?"

Stripping off his own clothes, Sherlock joined John in the showers. He noted the appreciative up and down appraisal that John gave his own muscled, athletic body. Turning on one of the shower heads, he sighed in pleasure as warm water washed away the sweat of the day. He stole a glance at John, who had grabbed a bar of soap from his bag and was lathering his chest, then trailed lower to wash his groin. Sherlock caught his breath, impressed with John's nonchalance. A smile played at the corners of John's lips, indicating that he knew Sherlock was watching and didn't mind. He caught Sherlock's eyes and winked again.

"Do my back?" He asked, holding out the bar of soap.

"S-sure." Sherlock took the soap and John turned around.

Sherlock rubbed his soaped-up hands in circles across John's tanned back, enjoying the feel of smooth muscles beneath his fingers.

"All clean back there?" John teased after a few minutes and Sherlock reluctantly stepped back.

"Squeaky clean." He murmured, handing the soap back to John.

"Want me to do yours?"

Sherlock nodded and turned. John's fingers were strong and warm as they slid the soap across Sherlock's back and over his ass, pausing to tweak the skin.

"Cheeky." Sherlock said, laughing.

"Don't you know it." A light slap followed and Sherlock turned to find John, a smug expression on his face, staring adoringly at him.

"I really like you, Sherlock Holmes." He said, turning to rinse the soap off his body.

"You're not so bad yourself, Dr. Watson."

They both finished the shower in silence and then toweled off and put on street clothes. Sherlock was tucking his things back into his bag when John came up beside him and caught his hand in his. Raising slightly on his toes, John pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a long kiss, his tongue questing past Sherlock's lips and probing his mouth. Sherlock kissed back as John's fingers twined into his damp curls. Though there were no actual fireworks going off this time, there were plenty of fireworks exploding in Sherlock's mind as John pressed the length of his body close, letting go of Sherlock's hand to splay his fingers across the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock rubbed his hands over John's biceps and lost himself in the kiss, enjoying the feeling of John's soft lips against his. Pulling back, John broke the kiss with a light nip at Sherlock's lower lip.

"That okay?" John asked huskily.

Sherlock swallowed and whispered, "More than okay."

"We still having fun?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Good." John let the hand at Sherlock's back fall lower, gentle squeezing the flesh. "Want to grab dinner tonight?"

"I'm famished." Sherlock replied, not entirely sure if he was referring to food.

"I saw a dim sum place at the end of the street. Want to try that?"

"Lead the way." Sherlock grinned.

John held out his hand and Sherlock laced his fingers into it as the strolled companionably towards the exit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock heads back to the dance studio and plans an after-practice date with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please be aware that this chapter features a brief scene of physical assault. Proceed with caution if this triggers you.

"How do you feel about Indian take-away?"

Sherlock laughed, his mobile pressed to his ear. "In general?"

"No!" Replied John on the other end. "I mean, tonight? Take-away... my place?"

Sherlock's heart did a somersault. "Dr. Watson! So forward... are you going to show me your etchings?"

John snorted across the line. "You only wish you could take a look at my fine etchings."

Chuckling, Sherlock gave in. "Take-away sounds great. I'm heading in for my first practice today. Want to meet after?"

"I'll pick you up! I get off in a few minutes, just give me directions to the studio?"

Sherlock relayed directions and then bid John good bye as he arrived at the studio and let himself in. Breathing in the familiar scent of powdered rosin and sweat. A few dancers were already stretching and the barre and talking amongst themselves. Jim Moriarty stood, observing, offering comments. When Sherlock walked in and started changing into his ballet slippers, Moriarty shot him an eager grin and bounded over.

"Sherlock! Welcome back! Oh, it's good to see you looking well and healthy!" Moriarty bent and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder companionably.

"Er, thanks, sir." Sherlock tried to smile. "It's good to be back! I missed the studio while I was recovering."

"I hope you've given thought to auditioning next week?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've got a piece picked out and I've been choreographing it in my mind all week."

"Well, why don't you stay behind and show me? I can give you some pointers."

"Ummm...." Sherlock stalled, trying to figure out how to say no without giving away his plans with John. "That would be great, but...--"

Moriarty didn't give him a chance to say no. "Fantastic! Well, I need to go finish making sure everyone is warming up all right. You take your time today, all right? No more injuries!"

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as Jim loped off to greet some more arriving dancers. He would figure out later how to get out of a private session with his teacher. For now, he just wanted to lose himself in dance. After a warm up featuring some of the stretches John had taught him, Sherlock moved his way through some simple dance moves. His ankle felt strong again and didn't hurt. Growing bolder, Sherlock joined the rest of his class and moved with them, drawing an encouraging smile from Moriarty.

The time passed quickly and soon Sherlock found himself alone with Jim Moriarty.

"Show me your piece, won't you?" Moriarty took a seat at one of the benches along one wall of the studio.

"You know, we don't have to do this today." Sherlock insisted. "I've kind of got plans and...."

"Nonsense!" Moriarty crowed. "It won't take long."

Giving in, Sherlock turned to the stereo and slipped in the CD he'd been carrying around in his bag. He'd chosen a more modern track for this dance, pairing it with upbeat choreography. As the first beats of David Bowie's Absolute Beginners sounded through the studio, Sherlock took position, then pushed himself off the wall in a series of barrel turns. Stepping quickly, he moved into a glissade, then a double pirouette. As the song neared the end, Sherlock crossed the floor with rapid chaines turns, then dipped down with his arms arched gracefully over his head before throwing himself aloft in a grande jete. The song faded to an end as Sherlock used allegro movements, kicking his feet out gracefully to one side, then the other, then finished with his arms and legs extended in an arabesque.

Moriarty leapt to his feet, clapping. "Bravo, bravo! That was beautiful! Simply superb!"

Sherlock's cheeks reddened as he smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, sir."

"That's a fine choice for an audition piece!"

"Do you think the director will appreciate it?"

"I do, I really do. I'd be surprised if you aren't given one of the bigger roles." Moriarty stepped close to Sherlock, his hand lightly brushing a nonexistent bit of lint off of Sherlock's shoulder. "You know, Sherlock... you deserve to be a star. I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you."

Sherlock licked his lips, unsure of how to reply. Moriarty moved closer, his hand reaching up to cup Sherlock's chin. Before Sherlock could stop it, Moriarty's mouth had covered his lips, pressing firmly in a warm, moist kiss.

A thump sounded behind them, shattering the moment and they both turned to look at the studio door. John Watson stood silhouetted against the evening light filtering in through the open door. He stared at the two of them, Moriarty's hands resting lightly at Sherlock's hips. The look on John's face was a mixture of hurt and anger. The noise had been a bag of takeaway food, now spilled across the studio floor.

"I'm sorry." John's voice was hoarse and he stopped to clear his throat. "I didn't mean to intrude. I'm going to assume this means our date is off, Sherlock?"

Without waiting for an answer, John turned abruptly and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Uncomfortable silence filled the studio as Sherlock blinked at the door, the full weight of what just happened settling heavy on his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" Jim's voice was high and nervous. "What did he mean, a date?"

Turning back angrily to Jim, Sherlock snapped, "That was extremely inappropriate. I ought to go to the director about your behavior towards me."

He went to duck around Moriarty, but the teacher moved quick as lightning, capturing one of Sherlock's wrists in his hand and squeezing so hard it took Sherlock's breath away. Moriarty leaned close and whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"Listen closely to this, Sherlock. No one will believe you if you tell them about this. _No one_. Do you know who I am? Do you know my history? No one will believe some upstart dancer. And if you try to spread lies about me, I'll make sure you regret it. You can kiss your ballet career good bye... and I'll make sure to take care of that handsome thing that just left, won't I?"

Sherlock's blood ran cold as Moriarty flicked steely eyes towards the door and the spilled take-away boxes.

"Be a good boy, won't you?" Moriarty's breath blew across Sherlock's skin, sending a shiver up his spine.

Jim dropped his wrist and stepped back, the dark look leaving his face, his normal persona returning like a mask. "Keep up the good work on that practice routine, all right? I'll see you at the next practice."

Moriarty headed to the back for his office, leaving Sherlock pressed against the barre, rubbing his sore wrist. As soon as his teacher was gone, Sherlock grabbed his things and stuffed them in his bag. Running out the door, he tried to catch a glimpse of John. He frantically tried calling John's mobile, but only got voicemail.

"John? Please, call me back." His breath came in puffs as he ran to the street. "I need to explain. Please? It wasn't what it looked like."

Near tears, Sherlock shoved the mobile back into his bag and headed off in the direction of home to clean himself up.

***

"What's gotten into you?" Molly griped as Sherlock came slamming into their flat. "Practice went that poorly?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to pour out his sorrows, but then remembered the black look in Moriarty's eyes and the threats he'd whispered into Sherlock's ears. He closed his mouth and shrugged. "It went okay. I'm just tired. Why weren't you there?"

"Couldn't be bothered." Molly stuck out her tongue. "Last week Jim said my turn outs were sloppy and I was sway-backed. That man is odious and I needed a break, so I phoned in sick. Want some of the pasta I'm cooking? I've decided to go all out on the carbs tonight."

Sherlock tried to force a smile onto his face, but only produced a wavering smirk that collapsed as he finally let the tears fall. Dropping into a chair, he buried his face in his hands.

"Sherlock!" Molly ran over to him and perched on the arm of the chair. "What's up? You said practice went okay?"

"It's nothing to do with that." Sherlock sobbed. "I think I've ruined things with John."

"How? You were getting along so well!"

"It was just... a stupid misunderstanding! But now I don't know where's gone and he won't answer his phone!"

"Oh, sweets." Molly wrapped Sherlock in a hug and rested her head on his curls. "John's not stupid, surely he'll calm down. I thought this was just supposed to be a bit of fun?"

Hiccupping as he got his tears under control, Sherlock swiped a hand across his nose and sighed. "I think I've let myself get attached."

"Yeah, I think you have." Molly's gaze landed on Sherlock's wrist, which had a light bruise forming around it. "Hey, what's that?"

Before he could hide his hand, Molly had grabbed hold of it and was running her fingers over the bruise. "Did John do this?"

"What?!" Sherlock squawked. "No! Absolutely not."

"Then who did? These are finger-marks!"

"No one... it was an accident!"

"Sherlock, don't be stupid. This doesn't happen by accident."

"I promise it's nothing, Molly. Just drop it, okay?"

Scowling suspiciously, Molly let go of his hand. "You'd tell me if John was hurting you, right?"

"He's _not_. He would never." Sherlock insisted.

Before Molly could probe further, his mobile rang and Sherlock dove for it, crying out in relief as John's name displayed across the face of the phone.

"John?" He blurted into the phone as he pressed the answer button.

Silence stretched at first, and then John's voice, low and gruff, answered. "Sherlock, look, I've been walking around for the last hour and I've come to the conclusion that I'm not having fun anymore."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John stop having fun with each other.

  
_Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point._  
\- Blaise Pascal

Sherlock's legs turned to jelly as he pressed the phone tightly to his ear. "John... please. I can explain... it wasn't what it looked like!"

"No, please let me finish." John interrupted. "You see, I realized that I'm not having fun anymore... because I don't want to just have fun."

He paused to take a deep breath, then resumed. "I don't know if it's too late, Sherlock... if I've lost my chance. But I like you a lot more than just a bit of fun. Seeing you kissing another man... it made me realize how much I need you in my life. And how empty it would be if you weren't there."

Sherlock bit back a sob of relief. "Really?" He whispered.

"Truly." John laughed softly. "And when I walked in on... that... I was so overwhelmed with jealousy, I thought I'd lose my mind. So I went for a walk and tried to process everything I was feeling. Look... I know being exclusive with each other is a big step. But I'm asking you if you're ready for that, and I hope that you are."

"John..." Sherlock breathed into the phone.

"No, please, don't tell me like this. Can we meet up?" John interrupted once more. "I've just come back to my place. Can you come over?"

John rattled off an address and Sherlock quickly agreed. "I'll be right there."

Disconnecting the call, Sherlock leapt to his feet, "I'm going out, Molly! Don't know when I'll be back... but everything's fine!"

***

John opened the door to his flat to find Sherlock on his steps, nervously bouncing from foot to foot.

"Hi." John murmured, his face apprehensive. "Want to come in?"

Sherlock nodded and brushed past John, his nose catching the scent of his shampoo and making his heart thrum excitedly.

The flat was a small, street-level studio on Baker Street; the interior furnished simply in blacks and greys. Wood flooring throughout and soft grey walls trimmed in white gave the room a warm, cozy atmosphere. A small slate-grey sofa rested against a shelving/closet unit and Sherlock noted that it appeared to have the ability to fold under and allow a bed to fold out from the closet. It faced a modest entertainment system with a flat-screen TV and high-end stereo and speaker system that was probably worth more than anything else in the flat. Below, on the shelves of the TV stand, was a small collection of books neatly stacked together. The kitchen area was compact and furnished in black with a white backsplash made of honeycomb-shaped tile. A red teapot rested on the stovetop and, across from the cooking space, a cafe table just big enough for two chairs took up a portion of the floor area and created a tiny dining nook. A door from the kitchen area led to a small bathroom with a grey, faux-brick wall. A generous arched window let in beams of sunlight that danced across the floor. Though small, the flat didn't feel cramped, and it smelled of John Watson - a mixture of minty soap, clean sweat, and spearmint gum. Touches of John could be glimpsed throughout the flat - the books, his white doctor's coat hanging from a hook on the door, sneakers and a rugby ball dumped unceremoniously outside the bathroom door, and a plate scattered with crumbs left in the porcelain kitchen sink.

"Err..." John shut the door gently behind Sherlock. "It's not much, I grant you. I don't really spend a lot of time here, so I didn't think I needed a huge space."

Sherlock turned back to smile at John. "It's perfect. It's you."

"I-it is?" John looked taken aback. "Oh, um... thank you."

His cheeks flushed pink and he rubbed his neck with one hand, gazing up at Sherlock through golden lashes.

"I need to tell you--" Sherlock said, just as John started talking at the same time. They both fell silent and then laughed.

"You first." John said, guiding Sherlock over to the small sofa.

Sherlock clasped his hands nervously. "I'm sorry you saw what you did at the studio. I promise, I didn't initiate that, nor did I ask for it _or_ enjoy it. I like _you_ , John Watson. A lot. Probably more than is good for me. And I'd like to see where we could go after 'just a bit of fun'."

John's shoulders relaxed as he blew out a breath of relief. Covering Sherlock's nervous hands with his, he grinned, his face suffused with absolute joy and adoration. "Oh... thank you. It doesn't matter. This afternoon doesn't matter at all to me as long as I haven't lost you."

He lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss, his thumb grazing the bruising left by Moriarty and causing Sherlock to wince at the tiny stab of pain. John's eyes flicked to the wrist where the bruise had fully formed, ringing Sherlock's skin.

"What's this?" John asked, cradling Sherlock's hand and examining the bruise, his fingers tracing it lightly. "Who did this to you?"

The concern in John's voice and his gentle touch opened the floodgates for Sherlock. Tears fell down his cheeks as he explained Moriarty's escalating behavior and the way he'd forced himself on Sherlock that afternoon. The more he talked, the darker John's face grew, his eyes flickering with anger. As Sherlock finished his story, he jumped to his feet and paced the floor, one hand rubbing his mouth, the other clenching and unclenching.

"I'll kill him." John spat, turning to face Sherlock. "I will, I'll kill him."

"No, John, please!" Sherlock begged, his voice filled with anguish. "Please, don't make it worse."

John, incredulous, replied, "Worse? How could it possibly be worse, Sherlock? The man assaulted you! Who knows what he would have done if I hadn't walked in?"

Tears still falling, Sherlock looked miserably at his hands and didn't say anything. John sucked in a few deep breaths, then sad down beside Sherlock again and touched his knee lightly.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Tell me?"

"I know it's wrong." Sherlock said, the words coming out haltingly. "But I don't want to lose my place in the company. I've worked so hard to get there. Do you know how hard it is to get anywhere in the ballet world?"

"Oh." John suddenly understood. "Of course... I know it's highly competitive. But you can't let him abuse you just for a position in the company."

"I know that... now."

"He's got someone over him, right? Could you talk to whoever that is?"

"The director... yes, I probably could. Probably should, in fact. I'll... make an appointment to see her and go from there."

John leaned into Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "Whatever happens, it'll be all right, you know? We'll make it all right together."

Sherlock turned his face into the space between John's neck and shoulder, inhaling his scent and letting the rest of the frustration and heartbreak of the day flow out with his tears. John rubbed circles over his back and pressed a gentle kiss into Sherlock's dark curls.

When Sherlock finally calmed himself and withdrew, wiping the last of his tears away with the back of his hand, he gave John a shy smile. "Thank you."

John reached up to brush a stray curl from Sherlock's forehead. "So... where do we go from here?"

"Well." Sherlock mused. "I guess we're not having fun anymore."

"No, definitely not." John pasted a serious look on his face and nodded sternly.

"What do serious adults in serious relationships do?"

"Oh, God... hell if I know." John blurted out, his serious look dissolving as he laughed. "I've tried to avoid serious adulthood my whole life. But I think I'm just about ready to handle a not-so-serious, serious relationship."

"That sounds about right to me, too." Sherlock agreed, snuggling closer to John.

"You want to stay here tonight?" John asked suddenly. "I mean... we don't have to do anything yet if you don't want to, but you want to stay in? We can go replace that takeaway that I wasted and watch a movie? I think I've got an old shirt that might fit you if you want to sleep over."

"I like that idea." Sherlock nuzzled his face against John's shoulder. "I might never want to leave after that."

Burying his face in Sherlock's hair and inhaling deeply, John wrapped his arms around him and hummed happily. "Fine by me, Sherlock. Fine by me."

A short while - and a great deal of cuddling and kissing - later, takeaway consumed, movie watched, Sherlock pressed himself against John's body, fitting his curves in with John's angles, and - content to just be in the same space as John Watson - drifted off to sleep with John breathing deeply behind him, an arm draped loosely around his waist. His dreams that night were filled with what he'd liked to do with John's body when he woke in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this made the pain of last chapter a *little* less :). And fear not... there's even more to come before we delve back into the darker bits of the story!
> 
> If anyone's interested, the inspiration for John's flat came from [this](http://www.gumtree.com/p/studios-bedsits-rent/big-studio-flat-baker-street./1096782589) listing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little heated up in John Watson's flat.

The space beside him was empty when Sherlock woke the next morning. He rubbed his hand across the expanse of sheet before cracking one eye open. A note lay on John's pillow, neatly folded in half with Sherlock scrawled across it. Sitting up, hair sticking up in wild disarray, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Sherlock took the note and unfolded it.

 _S -_  
_Early practice today - sorry! Wish I could be_  
_there when you woke up. Will be back later -_  
_wait for me?_

_J. xoxo_

Gently setting the note on the bedside table, Sherlock smiled and snuggled back into the blankets, burying his face in John's pillow and inhaling the familiar scent. He imagined waking up next to John, running his hands over his strong thighs and kissing him as he worked his way lower and lower. Sherlock bit his lip as he felt himself hardening. He trailed his fingers over the bulge in his boxer briefs and arched his back. Sliding his hand under the old rugby shirt John had loaned him, he pretended it was John's hand running across his ribs, tweaking the hardened nub of his nipple. He moaned softly and pushed the band of his underwear over his hips and stiffening erection. His cock bounced slightly as it escaped the confines of Sherlock's briefs. He licked his lips, thinking of John in the fitness center shower, of the water sluicing down his back. Wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock, he pretended it was John's hand stroking him. His hips thrust up to meet each stroke, his fingers teasing the swollen tip of his erection. Panting, Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined John's hard body on top of his, thrusting into him as Sherlock moaned his name.

He didn't hear the key in the door, nor was he immediately aware of John coming in, his rugby gear sticking to him with sweat. He paused when he saw Sherlock, his eyes going dark with lust. Clicking the door closed softly, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched, a slow, sexy grin spreading across his face.

"Is this a party for one, or can I join in?" John finally piped up, pulling his sweaty jersey over his head and tossing it in his laundry hamper.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, his hand letting go of his cock. "John! I...uh...."

John had stripped off his shorts and now stood at the end of the bed in a pair of red briefs and his striped rugby socks pulled up to his knees. "Don't stop... it looks like you're having fun."

Pink tinged Sherlock's cheeks as he looked up at John through his lashes. "I woke up and you weren't here and... I was just imagining what would have happened if you _had_ been here."

"Oh? Tell me what would have happened." John climbed slowly onto the bed and approached Sherlock on his hands and knees.

"Well...." Sherlock mused. "First I would have kissed you good-morning, because it's only the polite thing to do."

Placing his hands on either side of Sherlock, John hovered over his body and pressed his lips greedily to Sherlock's, his tongue teasing open Sherlock's mouth to probe inside. He trailed his mouth along Sherlock's jawline, nibbling and kissing while Sherlock grasped the back of John's neck and attempted to keep talking.

"And then I would have kissed my way down the entire length of your body, paying particular attention to here." Sherlock lightly ran a finger down John's ribs, causing him to jump and let out a snort of laughter. "Especially now that I know you're ticklish."

John grinned into Sherlock's neck and he nipped at the skin there, making Sherlock hiss in pleasure. Turning his face up to Sherlock, John grinned. "And then?"

"I would have taken off those red pants." Sherlock whispered, his eyes deep pools of bottomless blue. "I would have used my tongue to taste you - all of you."

John sat back, rapt, on his knees. Sherlock maneuvered himself up on his knees, as well, and rested a hand on John's waist, squeezing and massaging the tight muscles beneath his palm.

"And when it felt like you were about to unravel, I would have climbed on top of you and we both would come together." Sherlock's voice grew husky, his erection throbbing.

"Damn." John whispered. "I should have skipped practice."

Guiding him, Sherlock turned John so he braced himself against the wall next to the bed. "Oh I don't know." He said, kissing John's shoulders, then trailing his mouth down the line of his back. "You gave me more time to think up more things to do to you."

He pressed his lips to the slight hollow at the small of John's back, his fingers grasping the edge of the red pants and pulling them down as he continued to suck and lick at John's skin, tasting the salt of sweat against his tongue. John moaned low in his throat as the pants rubbed against his cock as Sherlock tugged them to his knees.

Sherlock pressed his face against John's crack, his hands spreading the dimpled cheeks apart to reveal a delicate pink rosebud. Flicking out his tongue, he pressed it against John, eliciting a shuddering moan from the man as he probed, slicking the path with his saliva. He licked again, caressing the hole with his lips and tongue, his hand reaching around to cup John's ball and massage them with his long, deft fingers.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John swore, his arms weak as he presses against the wall.

Moving his hand to John's cock, lazily stroking the length, Sherlock circled his tongue once more around John's hole, then replaced his tongue with his middle finger, pressing gently past the ring of muscle, stroking in rhythm with his other hand. He grazed John's prostate, drawing a cry from him as he thrust his cock into Sherlock's hand.

"Fuck." John panted. "Keep that up and I won't last much longer."

"Oh, no." Sherlock purred, withdrawing his finger and letting go of John's cock. "We can't have that, can we?"

John turned around and pulled Sherlock to him roughly, their cocks pressing against each other's abdomens. John dipped his head to nip lightly at Sherlock's shoulder as he gathered the flesh of Sherlock's ass in his hands and kneaded it with his fingers.

"I want to look at your beautiful face while I fuck you." John panted into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock wove his fingers into John's golden hair, still sweat-damp from practice, and purred his approval as he pressed his face against John's collarbone.

Reaching over to the bedside table, John took out a condom and a bottle of lube from the top drawer and swiftly slid the condom onto his cock. Sherlock grinned as an idea occurred to him. Bending backwards over the side of the bed, he braced his hands on the wood floor behind his head, elbows jutting forward, his supple body contorting fluidly into the new position. He arched his back, opening his body to John. Taking a cue from him, John used his arms to support Sherlock's thighs, spreading them wide. He squeezed a dollop of lube onto his cock, rubbing it over the length, then positioned himself and pressed into Sherlock slowly, giving him time to adjust to his girth.

Sherlock watched John with half-lidded eyes, his mouth open and panting in quick, short huffs. John eased inside, pleasure shooting up his cock as he began a slow, steady thrusting. Sherlock met him thrust for thrust, pushing with his legs to gain leverage. Their thrusts grew faster and John grasped Sherlock's stiff cock and stroked it with each thrust. They kept their eyes open and on each other, both their gazes flashing with heat.

John felt pressure building at his center and his thrusts deepened, his ass clenching each time he plunged into Sherlock. With a last, long stroke he lost himself, crying out wordlessly as he came, his cock pulsing deep inside Sherlock. A moment later, Sherlock's cock twitched in John's hand and spurted long, hot streams of come over Sherlock's chest, wringing out a strangled cry from his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head further back.

Slipping out of Sherlock, John bent to lick the come off of his chest and stomach, lapping his tongue over the defined muscles of Sherlock's abdomen. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and then laughed, shakily.

"Help me up?" He asked softly, extending one hand toward John.

"Sure thing, acrobat." John returned the laugh and helped pull Sherlock back onto the bed. He tugged Sherlock to him, their sweat and come-streaked bodies pressing against each other as John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's curls and found Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock's hands roamed over John's tight muscles, probing and stroking as he met each kiss greedily with tongue and teeth.

"Mmmm." Sherlock moaned into John's mouth before breaking the kiss and meeting his eyes, silently running them over John's face as though trying to etch it in his memory.

John broke into one of his sunny smiles, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Sherlock blushed. " _We're_ amazing. Together."

Brushing a hand over Sherlock's cheek, John grinned even wider. "We do make a pretty good team, don't we?"

"Can we stay here forever?" Sherlock whispered, laying his head on John's shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around his back, their skin growing warm where it pressed together.

"I'd be okay with that." John mumbled into Sherlock's hair as he, too, wrapped his arms in a tight hug. "Except we might get hungry."

"We can feast on each other."

"I think we already did that." John said, his laughter vibrating against Sherlock's ear.

"Does that mean you want breakfast?" Sherlock pouted, pulling out of the hug.

"It means," a sly grin made John look like a boy who had just stolen all the cookies out of the cookie jar. "I want us both to take a shower and then we'll eat breakfast in bed. And after that, I'm going to see how hard I can make you with just my tongue."

Heat rushing over him at the thought, Sherlock returned John's grin, then poked at the ticklish spot on his ribs again. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Giggling, John chased Sherlock out of bed and they tumbled into the shower together, their laughter echoing happily through the flat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John convinces Sherlock to make an appointment with the ballet company's artistic director.

A shower, breakfast, and a lazy afternoon in bed, exploring their bodies with hands, tongues, and lips, found John and Sherlock satiated and snuggled together in a tangle of blankets. John stroked Sherlock's curls and idly scrolled through the texts on his phone while Sherlock had his nose buried in a Brian O'Driscoll biography he'd found on John's bookshelves. 

"My friend, Greg, wants to grab dinner. Interested?" John asked, pausing on a text.

"Mmm?" Sherlock turned lazily to look at John.

"Dinner with friends?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Bleargh, people."

"I'll take that as a no, then." John laughed and tapped out a response to Greg.

"Another night, maybe." Sherlock mumbled. "I'm not ready to give you up to anyone else yet."

"Fair enough. Want to grab something for dinner, just you and me?"

"Would we have to leave this bed?" Sherlock stretched like a cat, pointing his toes and lifting his leg to point it at the ceiling.

"Well, yes." John laughed. "We'll eventually have to do that, anyway. I have work day after tomorrow."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Fine. Reality it is. Dinner would be nice, actually. What about that Brazilian place in Westminster?"

John leaned down over Sherlock and dropped a kiss on his forehead. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care where we eat."

"Brazilian!" Sherlock crowed, raising a fist in triumph and making John laugh.

They took their time getting dressed; the night was young and they were in no hurry. Sherlock pulled on the jeans he'd worn to John's flat and slipped on his shoes.

"Can I borrow a shirt? The one I wore here is kind of ratty."

"Sure." John's voice was muffled as he rummaged though his closet. "Dunno if this will fit, but try it out."

"It" ended up being a black t-shirt that did fit, albeit a little tightly. Sherlock borrowed a white dress shirt that was only slightly short in the arms, and layered it over the t-shirt, rolling up the sleeves to hide that it wasn't meant for his frame.

"Good thing this is a casual restaurant we're going to." Sherlock joked. "If I stay over anymore, I'll have to bring a change of clothing."

John emerged from his room, smoothing a brown and blue-striped jumper over dark brown corduroy trousers. He wore a natty pair of mahogany-colored loafers that would look stupid on anyone but John, who seemed to be suited to the style perfectly.

John shot Sherlock a lazy smile. "I'm okay with you bringing some things here. Ready to go?"

Traffic was light, so they caught a cab and found themselves at the restaurant in under fifteen minutes, seated at a table and beginning their first course.

"So." John said while chewing a thin slice of marinated pork. "I want to talk about our game plan with your dance studio."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "'Our' plan?"

"We're in this together, you know." John pointed the tines of his fork at Sherlock. "You and me, against the world."

"Well, okay. But I still have to be a big boy and deal with this myself."

"Not necessarily. I've got your back, Sherlock."

Sherlock pushed food around on his plate as he grew silent.

"You can't stay there with someone who's going to abuse you." John pressed.

"I know." Sherlock said quietly. "I'll call the artistic director on Monday and arrange a meeting."

"And if that doesn't produce results."

Sherlock looked anguished. "Can I think about that later?"

John softened. "Look, I'm not trying to push, I promise. I just want to keep you safe and happy."

Sherlock nodded. "If the meeting doesn't go well, I'll think about leaving the company."

"Good. I know you're committed to being a dancer, but there's got to be other places for you that don't involve some psycho hurting you."

Sherlock dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and nodded. "I know you're right."

"I'm always right." John joked.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him and they resumed their meal, veering towards more casual topics.

***

Sherlock slept over again that night, sending a message to Molly to tell her not to worry about his sudden disappearance. Staying with John felt easy and right, like they'd been together for much longer than they actually had.

Sunday was mostly a repeat of the previous day, though added into it were errands to run and the week ahead to prepare for. Sherlock accompanied John on a trip to the grocery, the laundromat, and in between all that, took in an afternoon movie. They fell easily into domesticity and Sherlock was loath to give it up. But that evening found them parting so that John could prepare for the next day's work and Sherlock could return home - at least briefly - for clean clothes.

Molly grilled him when he walked in the door of their flat, but Sherlock answered only as much as he had to, explaining that he'd gone to John's and stayed for a couple of days.

"What about all that business with your wrist? Did you two have a fight?" Molly demanded.

"No, no, that's all sorted." Sherlock waved away her concerns. "It was all a misunderstanding."

"You're not telling me something." Molly narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"I promise I'll explain later." Sherlock nudged Molly with his shoulders until she gave up and smiled at him. "Right now I just want to go to bed. I've got some things to do tomorrow."

"Fine, but you know I worry about you."

"I know, mum." Sherlock teased.

Molly smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Go away, you prawn!"

Sleep proved elusive without John's arms around him and without the steady comfort of his breathing. Sherlock tossed and turned, thinking about what had happened with Moriarty and planning what he would say to the director at his meeting. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he managed to fall into a fitful sleep.

***

Sherlock expected to be kept waiting for an appointment to see the artistic director, but was surprised when her secretary slotted him into a meeting late Monday afternoon, which is how he found himself currently waiting nervously in Ms. Adler's cramped office.

The door swung open and Irene Adler glided in, her slim frame clad in a grey leotard with black leggings underneath. Over that, she wore a gauzy cover-up in blue. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun.

"Mr. Holmes." Irene greeted Sherlock with a kiss on each cheek, clasping his hands briefly in hers. "I hope I'm not late. I've been working out the choreography for our upcoming performance. You're going to audition, aren't you? Mr. Moriarty has good things to say about your talent."

Irene sat behind her desk, which was scattered with ballet magazines and notepads with scribbled notes on them. A computer sat in one corner, the screensaver making colorful loops around the screen. Sherlock took his seat once more and cleared his throat.

"That's partly why I came to talk with you." He began, nervously.

Haltingly, he related his experiences with Moriarty, showing Ms. Adler his wrist, the bruises faded and yellowed, but still there. Her eyes narrowed as he told about Moriarty's continued harassment and possessiveness.

"I see." Irene's voice was clipped. "I must admit, I have a hard time believing this story, Mr. Holmes. James Moriarty is a celebrated ballet teacher, a career that he does not take lightly."

Feeling a lump of dread form in his stomach, Sherlock nodded. "I understand that, but I assure you what I'm telling you is true."

"And you are uncomfortable with his advances?"

"I-- well, yes." Sherlock said. "I'm not interested in him that way. I have a boyfriend."

Irene stared down her nose at Sherlock for a few silent moments, then resumed. "I'm sure you're aware that the field of professional ballet dancing is highly competitive." She paused and waited until Sherlock nodded. "There are many dancers who would do _anything_ to gain a desired position."

"I'm not one of those dancers." Sherlock said, appalled.

"No?"

"I won't sleep my way to the top, if that's what you're implying."

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Irene rolled her eyes. "I hope you understand that I must speak with Mr. Moriarty about this, get his side of the story."

Sherlock swallowed, the lump of dread now rising to the back of his throat. "I don't think you'll get the same story from him."

"Nevertheless, I must speak with him. Would you consider a mediation between the two of you, to work out your differences?"

"I'm... not sure."

"What are your other options?"

Shrinking in his seat and wishing John were there for moral support, Sherlock replied, "I can't continue in a place where I'm afraid all the time."

"And that means?"

"It means that I'll have to leave the company."

Irene's eyes flashed. "Well, that is, indeed, your choice to make. But I hope you know you won't receive a favorable reference for any future placement."

Sherlock chewed on his lip and stared at his hands, which were clasped so tightly together his knuckles were white.

Sighing again, Irene flicked a hand towards the door, effectively dismissing Sherlock from her office. "I will speak with Mr. Moriarty and then we will proceed from there. Is that acceptable?"

"I suppose it will have to be." Sherlock rose and allowed himself to be ushered out. "Thank you for seeing me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reaches a decision about his place in the dance company.

  
_Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction._  
\- Antoine de St-Exupéry, _Terre des Hommes_  


John stumped up the stairs to his flat, his feet sore and shoulders tight from a hectic day of treating patients. At the end of the hall, outside his door, Sherlock lay with his back on the floor, waist bent and legs resting on the wall above him. His eyes were closed and earbud wires trailed from his ears to an iPod in his hands.

Feeling the weight of the day leave him, John smiled and slid down to sit on the floor by Sherlock. He reached out and tapped at the earbuds, causing Sherlock's eyes to fly open. He pulled the earbuds out and aimed a wobbly smile back at John.

"Hey." John said, splaying his hand on Sherlock's stomach. "What's wrong?"

Looking away, Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing."

"C'mon, it's me. You can tell me anything, right?"

Sherlock shrugged, blinking rapidly.

"Sherlock." John said, firmly. He took Sherlock's hand and bent over him to meet his eyes. "Did something happen today?"

Pushing his legs off the wall, Sherlock scooted back and sat up. His eyes were rimmed red and his mouth drawn down in a frown. "It's not important."

Tugging on Sherlock's hand, John pulled him into his lap, his slim body curling up against him and his head resting on his shoulder. "Everything about you is important to me."

Sherlock burrowed his face into John's neck and spoke, his deep voice rumbling through John's skin. "I went to see the artistic director today."

"I take it that didn't go well?"

"I don't think she believed me."

John's hand, rubbing at Sherlock's shoulder, stilled and his fingers tightened. His voice was tight as he tried to keep his anger from spilling over. "Oh?"

"She said she'd have to speak with Moriarty to get his side of the story. But she implied that I should stay quiet and do what I need to in order to raise in the ranks."

Every fiber of John's being wanted to get up, go to the dance studio, and beat Moriarty to a pulp. Instead, he took a few deep breaths and held Sherlock tighter to him. "You know that's not right."

Sherlock nodded into John's shoulder as the tears finally fell, dampening John's shirt.

"Shhh." John soothed. "It'll be okay. We'll make it okay."

"I don't know what to do." Sherlock hiccupped. "I'm supposed to audition tomorrow for our next performance."

"Would it help if I went with you?"

Sherlock pulled back, swiping his sleeve across his nose, and shook his head. "You wouldn't be allowed. Besides, I need to sort this on my own."

"Remember what I said... us against the world."

Sherlock nodded. He examined his hands for a moment, then looked up. "I think I'm going to have to leave the company."

"There are surely others you can join."

"Maybe." Sherlock sighed and slid off John's lap to lean against the door to the flat. "I won't have any help from Ms. Adler to find one, though. And it's difficult without references."

"We'll figure out something, together."

"I guess." Sherlock shrugged again.

"When will you let them know?"

"I think I should go through with the audition tomorrow. See what Ms. Adler says after that. Then I'll give my notice if she doesn't do anything about Jim."

"You know I'll support you every step of the way."

Sherlock tried to smile and almost-but-not-quite made it. "Thank you, John."

"Hey, I got you something today." John said, fishing around in his pocket. "Now... I know it's a bit quick and you can refuse this if you want, but... well, it just seemed right."

He extended his palm towards Sherlock, a silver key resting in his hand. "It's to my flat. I'm not asking you to move in, because I know it's too soon, but I want you to have a key to my place."

Sherlock took the key and turned it around, examining it, before lifting his head and looking at John, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "This is... it's perfect."

"Not too creepy, offering you a key after one weekend?"

"Not at all." Sherlock shook his head. "You make me feel wanted."

John gazed at Sherlock adoringly. "That's because you are. Wanted, needed... you've become an essential part of my life in such a short amount of time, Sherlock."

"I could say the same of you." Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss to John's lips. "No matter what happens in my shambles of a career, having you by my side makes me able to deal with it."

"So... what do you say we try that new key of yours out and go inside?" John nodded his head to the door.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, letting John help him off the floor. Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door and they went inside to make dinner and curl up in front of the television together.

***

"Lift your leg higher! Higher! Higher!" Moriarty snapped at one of the dancers auditioning.

He paced back and forth across the studio floor, casting a critical eye on the young girl executing a rather shaky spin. From his position on the floor, where he was stretching, Sherlock watched his teacher nervously. Nothing untoward had been said when Sherlock arrived, so he'd carried on as if nothing were wrong. That morning, he'd received a pep talk from John, who now worriedly texted him every ten minutes or so to ask how things were going. Sherlock tapped out Fine, for now, then silenced his phone and tucked it in his bag.

After a few more auditions, it was Sherlock's turn. He finished stretching, then positioned himself and nodded for the music to start. The first notes of Debussy's Air on a G String wafted through the studio and Sherlock began a very delicate, slow dance. He extended his leg in an arabesque, then moved fluidly into a series of pirouettes and jetes. Near the end of the piece, he lifted his leg behind him, bending his body forward; then, with a slight pivot of his hips, curled his leg around and finished with several turns before sinking to the floor, bowing his body.

"Simply beautiful." Moriarty murmured, coming close to Sherlock and running a hand over the back of his neck.

Sherlock uncurled himself and climbed to his feet quickly, putting several steps between them. "Thank you, sir."

Piercing eyes upon him, Moriarty licked his lips before turning away and calling for the next audition. Sherlock returned to the barre, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. He took a seat with the other hopefuls as they watched the remainder of the auditions.

After the last dancer performed and everyone was busy gathering their things to leave, Moriarty approached Sherlock, leaning against the mirror behind the barre and blocking Sherlock's way to the exit.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about." He drawled, fingering one of Sherlock's curls. "Though if you'd like to ensure a part in our performance, I could offer you some private instruction...."

Sherlock jerked his head away. "No... thank you, sir. I'm fine."

Moriarty pressed closer and opened his mouth to say something further, but was interrupted by Irene Adler sweeping into the studio.

"Mr. Moriarty." She said, her eyes sharp as she took in his closeness to Sherlock. "I believe we have an appointment with Mr. Holmes?"

Moriarty's face settled into a scowl as Sherlock glanced between the two of them, questioning.

"If you recall, I did not agree with your decision." Moriarty said between his teeth.

"Regardless, I have the final say in the matter. Mr. Holmes, would you please accompany us to Mr. Moriarty's office?"

Feeling as though he were about to go to his own execution, Sherlock followed the two of them to the back office. The remaining dancers stared curiously, which made Sherlock feel even more of a spectacle. Taking a seat in the office, he stared steadfastly at his clenched hands in his lap.

"I spoke with Mr. Moriarty yesterday evening about the issues you brought to my attention." Irene said, sitting down behind Moriarty's desk and leaving Jim to stand awkwardly behind her. "He's made it clear that it was all a misunderstanding."

Sherlock's head snapped up to take in Irene's smug face and Jim's petulant scowl. "A misunderstanding??"

"I'm sure we can all put this behind us, can't we?" Irene purred.

"N-no!" Sherlock stammered. "No, I don't think we can."

He cast an incredulous look at Moriarty, who had the decency, at least, to shift his eyes uncomfortably away.

"An important part of a dance studio," Irene continued, "is everyone's ability to work together. I'm sure you know that, Mr. Holmes. As I'm also sure you know that one bad apple spoils the lot."

"I don't think I'm the bad apple here." Sherlock protested. "If anything, _he's_ the bad apple."

Leaning forward, Irene's voice sharpened. "Mr. Holmes, you are overestimating your value with this company. I've made my position clear; if you do not feel you can continue with the company as it is, then I highly encourage you to leave. I am prepared to accept your resignation today with no repercussions. Although, I'm afraid I cannot offer a letter of recommendation to you."

Moriarty interrupted, "Really, Ms. Adler, I think this is a mistake. Sherlock is one of our more promising dancers."

"You already know my opinion, James." Irene snapped. "No matter how promising he is, if he can't shut his mouth and dance, there is no place for him in my company."

Feeling sick, Sherlock closed his eyes briefly before opening them and squaring his shoulders. "If those are my only choices, then I offer my resignation."

His words were met with a small gasp from Moriarty, who looked devastated. Irene smiled coldly and nodded.

"In that case, I accept. I'll need you to sign this form to make it official." She slid a paper and pen towards Sherlock.

"You had this prepared already?" Sherlock asked wryly, taking the pen and signing his name with a flourish.

"It pays to be prepared."

Standing up, Sherlock nodded stiffly. "If we're done here...?"

"I wish you luck, Mr. Holmes." Irene's eyes said just the opposite, but Sherlock thanked her and left the office.

He gathered his things and left the studio, fighting the tears that were threatening to overtake him. He fished his phone out of his bag and, seeing eight missed texts from John, started to tap out a response.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty's voice called out behind him and he stiffened, turning his body halfway to see his teacher walking fast towards him.

"Please, don't leave like this." Moriarty laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Surely we can work something out. If you'd only let me show you how I feel about you...."

Shrugging Moriarty's hand off his shoulder, Sherlock snapped, "I think you've done quite enough to show me how you feel."

"Please!" Moriarty wheedled, his voice growing more desperate. "I need you, Sherlock! Please, just listen to me!"

"I don't have to listen to you, anymore." Sherlock spat, eyeing Moriarty with contempt. "The way you treated me was completely unprofessional and wrong. I'm done with you, with this company."

He turned to go, but not before he heard Moriarty's reply. "You'll never be done with me, Sherlock. Never."

A chill ran up his spine and Sherlock increased his speed, not looking back as his former teacher stood, watching him leave.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks the news to Molly, John has a bad day, and they both receive a gift from a secret admirer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, my inspiration for part of this chapter came from [this video of a very talented guy dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ueJ4-lTa1s). Watch that video and tell me it's *not* Sherlock trying to cheer up John! Better yet, mute it and play it to [Uptown Funk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPf0YbXqDm0) and tell me it doesn't fit perfectly! ;)
> 
> Oh, and if you've never heard [Nothing Matters When We're Dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHL1X0jV0dI), I highly recommend giving it a listen, too.
> 
> WARNING: Please be aware that the end of this chapter features an instance of animal mutilation. Proceed with caution if this sort of thing triggers you.

Knowing that John was still at work, Sherlock went home instead and let himself into his flat. He could hear Molly humming to music as she puttered around in the kitchen.

"Hey, Mols!" He called, setting his bag at the base of the stairs.

"Hi, stranger!" Molly poked her head out of the kitchen. "I was just about to fix an early dinner before my evening dance class. Want some?"

"No, thanks. I'll grab something with John later." Sherlock went into the kitchen and snatched a carrot from Molly's side salad, popping it into his mouth.

He slumped into a kitchen chair and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What's up, buttercup?" Molly plopped down across from him, forking a bite of salad into her mouth.

"I left the company today."

"Excuse me??" Molly dropped her fork and looked at Sherlock, dumbfounded. "Explain?"

Sherlock related what had taken place that afternoon, omitting his final encounter with Moriarty so as not to alarm her any further.

"That's ridiculous! And wrong!" Molly's eyes burned hot with anger. "You can't just let them get away with that!"

"I'm tired of fighting it, Mols." Sherlock moaned. "I don't want to be part of a company that doesn't want me."

Molly chewed her lip, deep in thought.

"Besides," Sherlock said. "We both know this sort of thing happens all the time. Remember that dancer a couple years ago who was assaulted by her teacher?"

"Just because it happens, doesn't mean we should turn a blind eye." Molly said softly.

"I know. I just don't think I have it in me to fight this one."

"Well." Molly picked up her fork again and resumed eating her dinner. "I'm quitting, too."

"What? No, Mols, don't do that! You don't need to ruin your reputation for me."

"I'm not ruining anything. There are other companies, we'll both try out. And if the worst happens, I'll just keep teaching. That's not such a bad thing, is it?"

"You'd do that for me?"

"Sure." Molly shrugged. "You're my best friend. You've stuck with me through thick and thin. I'm going to do the same for you. I'll hand in my notice at my practice tomorrow."

"Thanks." Sherlock said, smiling at her. "I have other news, too. John gave me a key to his place."

"Get out, really?" Molly's eyes lit up excitedly. "Go, Romeo!"

Sherlock blushed. "I know it's a little fast... but I _really_ like him."

"I can tell he really likes you. And as long as he treats you okay, I'm all for that."

"He does... he's the one who encouraged me to quit the company when Moriarty wouldn't leave me alone."

"Then I already love him." Molly finished eating and cleared her plates away, dumping them in the sink. "I'll get those in the morning. I've got to run... you going to be okay?"

"Yeah. I'll probably spend the night at John's, if he doesn't mind."

Molly smirked. "Pretty soon I'm going to be looking for a new roommate, aren't I?"

Sherlock blushed again, but didn't answer. Molly ruffled his hair with her hand.

"It's all right, Sherlock. I think it's sweet that you're so besotted."

"You should have dinner with us sometime!" Sherlock suggested. "I'd like my two best friends to know each other."

"I think that sounds lovely." Molly grabbed her ballet bag and checked to make sure she had everything for her class. "Let's talk schedules later, okay?"

Bidding his roommate farewell, Sherlock checked the time and noted that he would probably arrive at the hospital just in time for the end of John's shift if he left right then. He made sure a light was left on for Molly, and then exited, locking the door behind him.

***

St. Bart's was abuzz with action as Sherlock walked the hall to urgent care, where John was working that night. He gleaned from overheard comments that a massive car accident had come in late in the evening and everyone was dealing with the aftermath. Knowing he might have to wait for John to finish dealing with emergencies, Sherlock found the breakroom and curled up on the sofa with a magazine. He paged through, skimming a few articles, before his eyes grew heavy and he laid his head on the back of the sofa and let himself drift.

The breakroom was dim when John shook Sherlock awake. He glanced around blurrily before smiling softly at John.

"Hey." John said, returning the smile. "How long have you been here?"

Sherlock checked the clock on the wall and shrugged. "A couple of hours? I wanted to surprise you, but you were busy."

"Rough night." John said. His eyes looked tired and sad and the front of his scrubs had what looked like drops of blood on them.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his hand over John's arm.

"Car accident. A bad one. I've been assisting in surgery all night. We lost the last one - a kid, no older than sixteen."

"Oh, God."

"The parents are understandably distraught. He was supposed to be headed to a concert with his friends."

"I'm sorry you had such a rough day." Sherlock leaned into John and kissed him on the mouth.

"What about you? How'd things go at practice?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "Doesn't matter... it's nothing compared to your day."

"Nah, don't be like that." John nudged Sherlock's leg with his knee. "Spill it, Holmes."

"I was highly encouraged to quit the company."

John's face grew dark and stormy. "Because you had the guts to stand up to your teacher, you get punished?"

"Don't make a fuss." Sherlock warned. "I was upset at first, but then I realized I don't want to be somewhere like that. I'll find something else. I'm just glad to be rid of Moriarty."

"If I see that creep on the street, I'm going to make him regret ever laying a hand on you." John growled.

"Stop!" Sherlock playfully smacked John's knee. "As turned on as that just made me, I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and kissed his palm, shooting him another sad smile. "What was my life without you?"

"Probably as boring as mine. Let's go? Want to grab dinner?"

"I don't think I'm in the mood for being out in public. Popcorn and a movie at my place?"

"You're on. C'mon." Sherlock got up and tugged John to his feet.

John went into the bathroom and changed into his street clothes, discarding his bloodied scrubs in the laundry on the way out. They walked closely together, Sherlock snaking his arm around John's waist and tucking his hand in John's back pocket.

***

"James Bond?" John asked, sifting through his DVD collection.

Sherlock, drizzling butter on a bowl of freshly popped popcorn, wrinkled his nose. "Too much testosterone."

"Don't diss the spy." John laughed, but continued to flick through his DVDs.

Sherlock walked to the living room with the popcorn and two open bottles of cider. John patted the couch next to him as he continued to contemplate his movie choices.

"To be honest, I don't care what we watch, because I'll just be looking at you the whole time." John said, shooting a wink at Sherlock.

"Oooh, hello, Dr. Smooth." Sherlock laughed.

John smiled tiredly, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes, which still held the weight of his day at work.

Sherlock got up and went to the stereo, examining the pile of CDs next to it. Grinning, he popped in a disc and pressed play. The first beats of Uptown Funk echoed through the flat and Sherlock popped his hips in time to the beat. Turning around, a teasing smile on his lips, he let the music take over, twitching his shoulders and bouncing around on his feet. He undulated his hips as he approached John, who was watching him with a slow smile creeping over his face. This time the smile reached his eyes and they lit up with humor. Sherlock moved close, shaking his hips and ass. John laughed at this and sat back, crooking a finger to beckon Sherlock closer. Shaking his head, Sherlock moved away, letting the music propel him around the flat in a ridiculous dance. He returned to John on the sofa, who watched him with a bemused expression. Sherlock bent down and grabbed John's hands, pulling him forward.

"No, no!" John laughed, but Sherlock ignored his protestations.

He pulled John into the dance, coaxing him to bob and weave to the music. John reluctantly started bouncing his head, then finally gave in and attempted a few clumsy dance moves. Sherlock giggled and switched to some easy moves that John could copy. As the beat thrummed through the floor, they both gave themselves over to dancing frenetically. When the song drew to a close and switched to The Magnetic Fields's Nothing Matters When You're Dancing, Sherlock pulled John to him and slowed, swaying in time to the mellower song.

"Thank you." John said, rising up on tiptoe to kiss the tip of Sherlock's nose, which caused Sherlock to giggle and blush.

"Thought you could use some cheering up."

"I did need that." John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder as they stood in the middle of the flat, swaying gently to the music. He twined his fingers with Sherlock's. "You make me feel whole."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's temple. "I could say the same of you, John. You keep me steady in the storm."

John pulled back to look at Sherlock, his eyes darkening. "I know this is insane and I know it's quick, but... I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt his heart leap at the words and he pulled John even closer, until their noses practically touched. He kissed John's lips gently and, in between kisses, whispered, "I love you, too, John Watson."

The mixed CD in the stereo continued to cycle through songs, but they went unheard as Sherlock and John held each other close and moved slowly to their own song. Much later, movie and popcorn forgotten, they pulled out the bed and tumbled to the sheets in a tangle of limbs and wet kisses. Soon the flat was filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers until they both fell asleep, satiated and happy.

***

The next morning, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, wearing loose grey yoga pants that hung low on his hips, and brewed some coffee while John gently snored. He glanced up when he heard a soft thump at the door. Padding over to look through the peephole, Sherlock saw nothing. He cracked the door open and glanced down. A white box lay outside the door; Sherlock heard the sound of retreating footsteps, but couldn't tell which way they went. He unlatched the security chain and bent to retrieve the box. As he brought it in, John sat up blearily, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"Who'zat?" He mumbled through a yawn.

"You got a delivery." Sherlock hefted the box up and set it on the table.

John slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. A short while later he emerged wearing an old pair of rugby shorts. He wandered over to the kitchen table and took the cup of coffee Sherlock offered him, sipping it and making a lot of pleased noises. He slipped his fingers under the rim of the box and pulled off the lid.

"Jesus!" John shouted, the coffee cup falling from his hands and splattering against the floor. Hot droplets of coffee hit his legs and he hissed, stepping out of the way.

In the box was a beautiful bouquet of roses - red, yellow, white, pink, and coral - and nestled in the middle of the bouquet was the body of a dead rat, its white fur stained bloody at the neck where it had been sliced open. A card lay in the middle of the bouquet as well and read, simply, "Sherlock & John."

Sherlock, having raced around the table at John's exclamation, recoiled from the box, covering his mouth in revulsion.

"Fuck, shit, god dammit!" John swore angrily, grabbing the box and jamming the lid on. He stuffed it in the trash and then returned with a broom to clean up the glass shards on the floor. "Don't come over here, Sherlock. You'll cut yourself."

Sherlock's body was shaking from the scare and he felt on the verge of tears. "Who would have sent that?"

John, crouched on the floor to get the last specks of glass, glanced up, his eyes dark with rage. "I think we both know who sent it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock pay a visit to the police and make plans.

After the glass had been cleaned up and John's temper has calmed to a slow simmer, he fished the offending box of flowers out of the trash.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked from his perch on the kitchen counter as he gnawed nervously at his thumbnail.

"We're taking these," John said, lifting the box of flowers, "and visiting my friend, Greg."

"He's the cop, right?" Sherlock slid off the counter and padded over to stand by John.

"He is. We need to know how to proceed on this."

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"Sherlock, we've just been left a dead rat with its throat cut!" John burst out incredulously. "I don't even know how Moriarty found my flat!"

"You're right, I know you're right." Sherlock said miserably. "I just worry about what he'll do if we give this attention."

"That's exactly why we have to go to the police." John leveled his finger at Sherlock's face to punctuate his point. "I'm going to give Greg a call and see who we need to talk to."

***

Greg leaned against the table in the witness room and listened as Sherlock recounted Moriarty's behavior to Sergeant Donovan, who scribbled notes on a legal pad. She cracked open the box of flowers and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Bag the rat, Lestrade." She commanded. "And dust the box for fingerprints. I don't think we'll find anything, though."

Greg gathered pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves and took the box from her, leaving the witness room. Sergeant Donovan sat back in her chair and ran a hand over her mouth as she thought over her next words. "So, let me get this straight. Your teacher's behavior escalated, he assaulted you, and now he's stalking you?"

Sherlock nodded nervously and John snaked a hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"But you don't have any proof?" Donovan asked.

"I... what?" Sherlock looked up, startled.

"Did you photograph your bruises?"

"Oh, um... no."

"Did you record anything threatening he said?"

Sherlock shook his head no.

"And you didn't see who left the flowers?"

"No." Sherlock shrunk back in his chair, face turning red.

"Hang on a minute!" John demanded. "We _know_ it's Moriarty doing these things!"

"Look, I believe you. I do." Sergeant Donovan insisted, glancing sympathetically at them both. "You're a friend of Greg's, so that means you're probably trustworthy. But without evidence, there's nothing we can do."

Greg re-entered the room shaking his head. "All the prints were too smudged."

"I guarantee they all belonged to John and Sherlock. The box had probably been wiped clean before it was left." Donovan said. "I sympathize, I really do. What I suggest you do is be very vigilant. Pay attention to your surroundings and if you encounter anything unusual, document it, document it, document it. I would avoid going anywhere alone, as well."

"That's all you can offer?" John asked helplessly.

"I'm afraid it is. We'll fill out some paperwork before you go, Mr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. That way there's a trail, should anything happen."

Sherlock sensed the anger under John's quiet calm and placed a hand on his knee. "It's okay," he whispered. "We'll figure it out."

John bit his lip and took a few, deep breaths to calm himself. He rose to his feet and offered a hand for Sergeant Donovan to shake. Then he turned sharply and marched out the door, Sherlock following behind.

"Wait, John!" Greg called out, catching up with them halfway down the hall. "I'm sorry, I wish we could have been more help."

"Me, too." John sighed.

"You've got my number? I want you to call if anything happens. I mean anything."

"Sure, Greg." John said, feeling some of his anger and indignation ebb away. "Thanks for that."

"You, too, right?" Greg nudged Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock smiled softly and nodded.

"Okay, good." Lestrade nodded. "I've got to get back to work, but remember, I'm only a phone call away."

***

Sherlock and John were too tired to walk home, so they took a cab. In the backseat, John fretted.

"There's only one thing for it." He said, crossing his arms. "You're going to have to move in with me."

"What?" Sherlock's jaw dropped open.

"I want to keep you safe. I can't do that if you're not with me."

"You only just gave me a key!"

"Yeah, and now I want you to move in."

"You have a job," Sherlock pointed out. "And I need to look for a new ballet company. There's no reason I need to move in for that."

"It would make me feel better." John insisted. "To know that you're not dead in the streets somewhere."

"I think you're being a little melodramatic, John." Sherlock said, laughing.

"Maybe. Hope I am, actually. I just want to know where you are. If you move in, I can at least keep an eye on you when I'm not working."

"And when you're working?"

"You said Molly was quitting, too? Maybe you could hang out with her?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't need a minder every second of the day, though."

"I just want you to be safe and not go out in public alone."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Okay, I see your point. I guess I could move in _temporarily_ until this is all solved. And I'll see if Molly doesn't mind me hanging around her until you're off work."

"Thank you. I'm just worried." John brushed a kiss against Sherlock's temple.

"We can't go on like this forever, you know."

"I know. Let's hope Moriarty gets caught trying to pull something like that stunt this morning. If not, I'll...." John trailed off, casting a furtive glance to Sherlock.

"Promise me you don't do anything stupid." Sherlock commanded sternly.

John narrowed his eyes. "For now, I will do nothing."

Sherlock tapped on the plexiglass partition in the cab and asked the driver to switch course for the flat he shared with Molly. Turning to John, he asked, "You'll help me get my stuff moved over, right?"

"'Course I will!" John said. "I've got the day off, so we might as well get it done."

***

Heaving the last duffel bag of clothing into his flat, John let out a breath and flopped onto the couch. "Not sure we're we're going to fit everything."

"I know, I'm sorry." Sherlock said, pushing the bag across the floor with his foot. "I'll figure out a way to store it without being in your way."

"Don't worry, a little crowding won't matter." John gestured for Sherlock to come closer and he tugged on his hands, pulling Sherlock into his lap.

They nuzzled noses and Sherlock grinned. "I'm wondering if you orchestrated this all just to get me to move in with you."

"I'd be offended by that," John murmured, finding the spot on Sherlock's neck he liked the most and pressing his lips to it. "But I'm too busy."

Sherlock laughed as John's breath tickled his neck. They snuggled on the couch for a few moments until John checked his watch groaned.

"I have afternoon practice." He huffed disappointedly. "I've got to go."

"Can I come?" Sherlock asked.

"You want to?"

"Better than staying here alone."

"Then sure... you're welcome to come with me.

***

The way John's ass looked in his rugby shorts did funny things to Sherlock. He longed to run across the practice field and take a bite out of it. _I wonder what the team would think of that?_ Sherlock smirked as he thought of doing just that.

John was in the middle of a disagreement on the field, pointing and gesticulating wildly to make his point. Sherlock could hear a few words as they drifted over the field to him, but couldn't make out full sentences.

The argument soon broke up and they took their places. John whistled for them to start and Sherlock savored the view as John darted across the field, his strong leg muscles flexing as he bobbed and weaved through the players trying to stop him.

Rugby practice continued on in this fashion for another hour and Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed the view. Afterwards, John jogged over to him, a fine sheen of sweat causing his skin to glisten like amber jewels.

"All right?" John asked, out of breath.

"More than all right." Sherlock mused, shamelessly giving John a once-over from head to toe.

John grinned and arched an eyebrow. "This get you going, eh?"

"You have no idea." Sherlock grinned wickedly at him.

"So if we were to go home and practice some extracurricular activities for the rest of the day....?"

"I'd love nothing more!"

John gathered his things, bidding his fellow players good bye, and he and Sherlock headed back to John's flat.

 _I supposed I should call it our flat._ Sherlock mused to himself, enjoying the afternoon sun on their faces.

***

Sherlock had a laptop on the bed in front of him. He was naked but for a sheet wrapped around his body. The sky outside was getting dark as evening approached. Next to him, John dozed happily.

He scrolled through a website for a ballet company based in London and typed out an e-mail inquiry, sending it off with a click. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement by the window. Sherlock looked up, but saw nothing but darkness.

Sherlock got up, cinching the sheet tighter around him, and padded to the window. He cautiously pushed the curtain gasped, eyes widening in fear.

James Moriarty stood outside the window, his dark eyes glinting maliciously as he stared at Sherlock. They stood, frozen, for what seemed like ten minutes, but was surely only a few seconds. Then, before Sherlock could make a move to grab his phone to take pictures, Moriarty turned and disappeared into the darkness.

"John!" Sherlock cried, rousing John instantly.

He leapt to his feet. "What, what is it?"

"Moriarty." Sherlock said shakily. He was... is... out there. He was looking through our window."

John bolted to the door and barreled out, Sherlock's protest falling on deaf ears. "Stay here!"

Sherlock moved to follow, but kept hesitating. He watched out the window for any sort of movement, but it was too dark. Finally, about twenty minutes after he'd left, John returned looking disheveled and disappointed.

"Couldn't find anyone." John sighed, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"He was really here." Sherlock insisted.

"I know, I believe you." John insisted. "I just wish we could get evidence."

Sherlock worried his lip between his teeth. "I don't think I can sleep after that."

"Let's just stay up and watch movies, then." John suggested. "I'll make us breakfast for dinner and we'll stay up too late."

"You don't have to work tomorrow?"

"I do, but it doesn't matter."

"Okay."

***

Full of waffles and eggs, drowsy from a couple of movies, Sherlock and John lay together in the dark of the flat and tried to sleep, their dreams troubled.

What they didn't see was the glint of eyes, looking through the front window, as Moriarty stood outside, brooding. He stood outside, watching, until he saw John stir and get up to use the bathroom. Then he blended into the darkness as he turned to leave.

***

"I feel terrible." John moaned, shoveling yogurt into his mouth and slurping a cup of coffee.

"Mmmf." Sherlock groaned, trying to keep his eyes from drooping closed.

"You're going to be with Molly while I work?" John asked, dumping most of his coffee into the sink and adjusting his tie.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Why don't we take her to dinner tonight? We could invite Greg, too. I think he works dayshift today, so he'll be available." John suggested.

"That would fun!" Sherlock offered a tired smile. "It'd be nice to do something with friends and try to regain some normalcy."

"I'll call him today, then. You and Molly want to meet us at that Middle Eastern place near your old flat? Say, around 6:00?"

"You've got yourself a double date, John Watson." Sherlock rose and kissed John good bye, tasting coffee and sugar on his lips.

"C'mon, then." John said, smiling fondly at him. "Let's get you to Molly's before I have to be at work."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock grows bored and cranky, so John invites him to play some rugby. Then a dinner out with friends ends on a low note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: from here on out, the story gets a little grim for the next handful of chapters. Please pay attention to the tags as I will be updating them with each chapter. If you feel you might be triggered by any of this, please avoid reading. Know that there *will* be an eventual happy ending, but not before we weather the storm.

The next couple of weeks progressed much the same: Sherlock spent weekdays with Molly and his nights and weekends with John. Molly and Greg joined them for dinner most Fridays and Saturdays as they worked their way through London's restaurants. Molly seemed particularly keen on Greg and, after one of their dinners, she whispered to Sherlock that she was considering asking him out on a proper date.

Sherlock, in the meantime, was growing brooding and frustrated from the boredom of this existence. He'd heard nothing from any of the ballet companies or studios he'd contacted and being cooped inside for most of his time left him feeling sluggish. He longed to stretch his limbs and dance. Instead, he was bored out of his mind most of the time. 

It was a black mood such as this that greeted John one Saturday morning as he dressed in his rugby gear.

"Going to Molly's while I'm out?" John asked, tugging on socks.

Sherlock grunted from the sofa, but didn't answer.

"Oookay. Guess that's a no." John arched his eyebrow at Sherlock. "I don't want to leave you here alone."

"Oh, God, John!" Sherlock burst out, sitting up and glaring at John. "I am not some porcelain doll that you have to shut away in a cabinet and make sure I don't get broken!"

Taken aback at Sherlock's reaction, John blinked owlishly at him and fumbled for what to say. "I... um, I mean, I'm just worried, Sherlock. I don't--"

"I know, you don't 'want me to be alone,'" Sherlock huffed. "This all has me paranoid beyond believe. I feel like I'm being watched everywhere I go, but I can't tell if it's _actually_ Moriarty, or if it's you and Molly! I'm suffocating and I'm _bored_!"

Sherlock had leapt to his feet and now paced back and forth in front of John. John got up, one foot still bare and went to Sherlock, wrapping him in a tight hug.

"I'm sorry." John murmured as he attempted to calm Sherlock's agitation. "This has been so unfair to you. I don't know if we're doing anything right, I just want to keep you safe so badly."

Sherlock relaxed in John's arms and buried his face in his hair, inhaling the citrus tones of John's shampoo. "I don't know how much longer I can take this."

"I know. It's maddening. And we haven't seen Moriarty for weeks." John said. "But that doesn't make me stop worrying about you."

"I need something to do, or I'm going to go spare." Sherlock mumbled into John's hair.

"How about this?" John offered. "Today's practice isn't actually practice. Sometimes we host a charity practice, invite some kids from local boys' and girls' homes. Why don't you come and help? We can always use help to wrangle the wilder children."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "You want me to spend my afternoon babysitting."

John shrugged. "Better than nothing, and afterwards, we can meet up with Greg and Molly for our dinner at Amici?"

"You know they're just continuing to have dinner with us every weekend so they can make eyes at each other." Sherlock grumbled.

"I know. Isn't it great?" John kissed Sherlock's nose. "What do you say?"

Sighing heavily, Sherlock gave in. "I guess it's better than staying in the flat all day.

***

Sherlock, outfitted in loose shorts and a white t-shirt, sat on the sideline of the practice field and did some hamstring stretches. A mass of children ranging in ages from young and grubby to not-as-young and grubbier were running pell-mell around the field with the rugby ball, their high-pitched voices carrying back to Sherlock and making him wince. He switched to lateral stretches with his arms arching over his head.

"D'you know you look like an idiot?" A sullen voice asked from behind Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to the benches behind him and discovered a young boy of indeterminate age and floppy brown curls.

"Warming up." Sherlock snapped dismissively, returning to his stretches.

" _You_ play?" The boy scoffed.

"No, I dance. Not that it's any of your business."

"Dance!" The boy cackled.

"What's wrong with that?" Sherlock glared at the boy's laughing face.

"Nothing... if you're a girl." The boy jumped from his seat and walked over to Sherlock, flopping on the grass.

Sherlock's glare deepened. "That's a rather medieval opinion for someone so young to believe."

The boy shrugged. "I'm Arch, by the way."

"Shouldn't you be out running around with a rugby ball?"

"Rugby's stupid."

"So rugby's stupid. Dance is stupid. What isn't stupid?" Sherlock got to his feet and began moving his way through positions slowly.

Arch's eyes followed Sherlock's legs as they stretched up in an arabesque. "Nothing."

"Ah, of course. Everything's stupid." Sherlock allowed a small grin to cross his face.

Arch sat up. "Why are you dancing in a rugby field, anyway?"

"That's my boyfriend over there. I'm just waiting for him." Sherlock blushed as he dropped the term 'boyfriend' so casually.

"The coach is your boyfriend?" Arch gaped at John who, at that moment, was barreling down the field with a mob of children screeching behind him.

"He is." Sherlock beamed with pride, standing with his back straight and in third position.

"Eugh." Arch stuck out his tongue. "Boyfriends and girlfriends are stupid."

Sherlock suppressed a laugh as John came jogging up to them.

"Arch, why aren't you out on the field?" John panted, shooting a quick smile to Sherlock.

"Don't want to." Arch grumbled.

"C'mon, on your feet." John urged. "It's your turn with the ball."

Protesting, Arch nevertheless rose and trudged down the field to the other children. John gave Sherlock a quick kiss. "Won't be much longer."

"It's fine." Sherlock smiled. "I'm just practicing a bit, loosening up my muscles."

John shot him a saucy grin and arched his eyebrow, which managed to turn Sherlock's face bright red without any words being said. John turned and jogged back to the children, shouting at them to get their attention.

***

The field finally emptied an hour and a half later. Sherlock was stretched on his back on the grass, eyes closed and enjoying the sun, when a shadow fell across his face. He squinted open one eye to see John grinning down at him, hands on his knees.

"Are they gone?" Sherlock asked, sitting up halfway.

"All packed onto buses and shipped back where they came from." John assured him, flopping onto the grass next to Sherlock.

"What's the deal with the rude one?"

"You mean Arch? Nah, he's not rude. He's had a bit of a troubled upbringing is all. I haven't quite found a way to crack him, the tough little nut."

"He'd be a better rugby player if he took some ballet lessons." Sherlock observed.

"Wait... what?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was watching him on the field. He's got good bearing. But he'd be a lot more sure of himself if he took some ballet."

"I don't know if I could convince him to do that...." John said, scrubbing at his hair. "And then there's the cost."

"Molly would take him on with her classes." Sherlock said. "She sometimes takes on students at no cost when they can't afford to pay."

John looked contemplative. "Maybe I'll mention something to his counselors. I know they've been trying to find something that would get him to open up a bit."

"What's his story, anyway?"

"Parents both into drugs. Father in prison now, mother in rehab. She may recover enough for him to go back to her... but I don't know if I have confidence in that. He's a smart kid, just tries to be a tough guy."

"You enjoy working with them, don't you?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I do. My own childhood had some bumps in the road. Not anything at this level, but enough that I feel like now that I've successfully reached adulthood, I should give back a little."

Sherlock reached up and stroked John's face. "Saint John."

Knocking Sherlock's hand aside, John laughed. "Hardly. C'mon, I saw you putting on your moves over here. Let me show you a few of my moves."

"What?"

John got up and extended a hand to Sherlock. "Let me show you some rugby moves!"

Sherlock scrunched his face. "Pass."

"Nope, I'm pulling the boyfriend card. No passing allowed."

Reluctantly, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled to the middle of the field. John brought over a rugby ball and stood in front of Sherlock.

"Okay, so you start off the game with a drop kick. Do you want to try one?"

"Not really." Sherlock smirked.

"Perfect." John grinned, then handed the ball to Sherlock. "So you just stand like so...."

John went behind Sherlock and drew close to him, using his hands to adjust Sherlock's hips so that his posture was correct. Sherlock felt heat envelop him as John's fingertips brushed over his hipbones. John reached around him to adjust his hands on the ball.

"And you hold the ball like this. Now you're going to drop the ball and at the same time, kick it with your foot. Got it?"

Breathless, Sherlock nodded. John stepped back and Sherlock awkwardly attempted a drop kick. The ball went bouncing off to the side a short distance away.

"Good try." John said, chasing after the ball. "But let's give it another go."

After several more tries, Sherlock had finally managed a semi-decent drop kick. John then switched to showing Sherlock several possible plays. They raced up and down the field several times, throwing the ball back and forth. Getting into it, Sherlock raced towards the goal with the ball, putting on a burst of speed. Just as he had almost reached it, he felt John's stocky body collide into his back and take him down. They rolled over on the grass several times until Sherlock found himself pinned under John's body. John grinned down at him as he snatched the ball from Sherlock's fingers.

"Did I mention there's tackling?" John asked, voice laced with laughter.

Grinning back, Sherlock grabbed a handful of John's shirt and tugged him down, pressing a sweaty kiss to his lips. Distracted, John loosened his grip on the ball and Sherlock grabbed it back. At the same time, he bucked his hips and effectively dumped John off of him and onto the grass. Seizing the moment, he scrambled up and pranced the last few steps over the goal line.

"Oi!" John said between giggles. "Not fair!"

Sherlock stood over him and grinned. "Not fair, but fun."

John tackled Sherlock's legs, toppling him back to the ground, and pounced onto him again, pressing kisses all over his face and letting his fingers find Sherlock's ticklish spots.

Gasping with laughter, Sherlock cried out, "Mercy, mercy!"

"Never!" John pinned Sherlock's wrists to the ground and kissed him deeply on the lips.

Sherlock grew serious and kissed back fervently. John let go of his wrists to let his hands explore under Sherlock's shirt. Meanwhile, Sherlock gripped John's hips, feeling the erection pressing into his leg. John smelled of sweat and grass and his lips blazed a trail down Sherlock's neck.

"John," Sherlock whimpered. "Don't stop, John."

They were a tangle of arms and legs, rolling around in the grass. Sherlock's hands slipped beneath the waistband of John's shorts and squeezed his ass as John pushed his t-shirt up and pressed kisses along Sherlock's ribcage. He continued moving downwards, swirling his tongue around Sherlock's bellybutton and then dipping into its depths. John hummed low in his throat.

"I could drink you in, Sherlock." He whispered, his cheek resting on Sherlock's stomach. "I want you, every minute of the day."

Sherlock's hand was now stroking John's hair softly as he stared up at the blue afternoon sky. "I would give myself to you every minute of the day."

John climbed off Sherlock and flopped onto his back beside him, lacing his hand with Sherlock's.

"Sherlock." John whispered.

"Mmm?"

"I have a raging hard-on for you and if we don't go somewhere and take care of it, I'm going to have you right here on this field."

Sherlock snorted with laughter. "If we're going to do that, we ought to charge for admission."

Giggling, they both got up and gathered their things. John splurged on a taxi and they spent the ride home trying - and failing - to keep their hands off of each other.

***

Several hours later, sated and relaxed, Sherlock and John got dressed for dinner.

"Thanks for that." Sherlock said, adjusting his jacket.

"What's that?"

"Distracting me. Thanks for taking my mind off the boredom."

"Glad I'm not boring you yet." John grinned.

"You could never bore me, John Watson."

They shared a cab with Greg and Molly to the restaurant. Dinner conversation was light and mostly involved a lot of flirting between Greg and Molly with occasional eyerolls exchanged between Sherlock and John. Near the end of the meal, as they contemplated the dessert menu, Sherlock kept glancing out the window.

"Something wrong?" John muttered.

"No." Sherlock said, the word drawn out a few beats. "Just thought I saw...."

His body stiffened and John turned to see what he was looking at. Through the restaurant window he spotted the piercing gaze of James Moriarty.

"Greg!" He snapped, redirecting his friend's gaze. "That's Moriarty."

"I thought I saw him pass by the window a few times." Sherlock said miserably, hunching down in his seat.

Knowing he'd been spotted, Moriarty grinned lazily and waved an index finger at them, then disappeared into the crowd.

"C'mon." Greg said, getting up. "We're going to put a stop to this right now."

"Greg, is that wise?" Molly asked worriedly.

"You two just wait here." John said, slipping out of his seat.

"Not this time." Sherlock said determinedly and he tugged Molly after him as they followed Greg and John out onto the street.

It was a pleasant Saturday night and there was a crowd milling around. Sherlock tried to catch a glimpse of John or Greg, to no avail. He let go of Molly's hand and began darting through the crowd, bobbing his head up to try to see over it. As he passed an alley, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. Sherlock found himself face to face with Moriarty. A slow grin spread across his former teacher's face. Sherlock stiffened and froze, his heart pounding in fear.

"Long time, no see, Sherlock." He whispered. He ran a finger over Sherlock's face, then pressed his cold, clammy lips against Sherlock's mouth and ground his pelvis against his body.

Sherlock pushed at Moriarty's chest, struggling to break the kiss, but the man was strong and wiry; he kept Sherlock pinned against the wall as he molested him. Pulling away from Sherlock's mouth, Moriarty breathed heavily, his breath smelling of wine. He leaned in close to Sherlock's ear.

"I won't let you leave me, Sherlock." He breathed, sending chills down Sherlock's spine. "You and I, we belong together."

Sherlock heard shouts from the sidewalk outside the alley and Moriarty pulled away, grinning.

"See you soon." Moriarty said and took off running down the street.

John arrived a few moments later to find Sherlock shaking uncontrollably as he used the alley wall to hold himself up. "Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"No." Sherlock gasped, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "No, I'm really not."

He related what Moriarty had done and John gathered him in his arms. "My God, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I'm so sorry."

Greg and Molly showed up behind them, both of them winded.

"Lost him." Greg said, swearing viciously. "Bastard's quick."

John turned to stare hard at Greg. "Please tell me this is enough to _do_ something?"

Greg ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up awkwardly. "Yeah, I think it is. We're witnesses. We can at least see about filing for a restraining order."

"It needs to be done. Yesterday." John spoke sharply.

Greg nodded. "Of course. First thing in the morning, I'll get the ball rolling."

"Good." John turned back to Sherlock. "Are you okay to walk? Let's get you home."

Their night ruined, all four piled into a cab and spent the ride home in silence. John clutched Sherlock's hand and worried at his fingers. Sherlock stared out the window, eyes red-rimmed, and rubbed a finger over his lips, still feeling Moriarty's lips on them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps Sherlock find closure.

There were three ceiling tiles between each light fixture in the witness room. Sherlock counted each one silently. One of the tiles had a small water stain on it and he made a note of that, as well. He counted tiles and scuffs on the floor and he tried not to think about John, who was not there. Greg said that John had to give his statements separately, so Sherlock knew he was _somewhere_ in the building. But this was something Sherlock had to do alone and he found reliving the memories difficult.

The witness room had been decorated for the comfort of the battered and traumatized who passed through its doors. To Sherlock, it all seemed false; nothing could cover the aura of stress and anguish that permeated the room. Sherlock sat at a small table, fiddling with a coffee cup and trying not to chew at his cuticles until they bled. Across from him, Greg scribbled on a pad of paper as he asked questions about Jim Moriarty.

"Tell me about what's happened since you left the ballet company." Greg prompted, his eyes sympathetic and warm.

Hands creeping up to his lips, Sherlock bit at the skin of his fingers as he tried to put the jumble of events in order. He tasted blood and quickly withdrew his hands, wedging them in between his thighs to keep from continuing the nervous worrying. He spoke haltingly, Moriarty's crimes piling up until he saw just how horrifying and quick the escalation had been.

After a few more questions, Greg capped his pen. "Those are all my questions. I'll get these transferred to the proper forms and we'll file the request. You'll get a temporary restraining order in about three days. After that, you'll have to go to a hearing to make it more permanent."

"I'll have to tell all that... again?" Sherlock felt his heart sink.

"I'm afraid so." Greg said softly. "But we'll all be there for you, Sherlock. Promise."

Sherlock allowed himself to be escorted out of the witness room. John waited on a bench outside, nervously fiddling with his phone. When the door opened, he looked up and leapt to his feet.

"Okay?" He asked, approaching Sherlock and Greg.

Sherlock nodded, even though it wasn't true. "Can we go home now?"

"Yeah, of course. They're done with me, too."

John moved to take Sherlock's hand and frowned at the bloodied cuticles. He laced his fingers with Sherlock's and squeezed softly. "You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock leaned into John. "I just want to go home."

"Sure, of course." John turned to Greg. "Thanks for helping with this, Greg. Let us know if you need anything else?"

Greg assured them someone would be in touch and waved them off. John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed his fingertips lightly as they left the station and caught a bus home.

***

The dark mood persisted as Sherlock moped around the flat. He was restless and moved from paging through a novel to flipping through John's DVD collection to pacing the kitchen floor. Finally, John stood in front of him and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"You're driving me crazy!" John cried. "Can you light somewhere?"

This sent Sherlock into a pout. "I feel like the walls are closing in on me."

"Want to go out?" John suggested, helplessly.

"No." Sherlock moved to the window and peeked out nervously.

"We could watch a movie?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John crossed the kitchen and stood behind Sherlock, threading his arms around his waist and leaning his head against Sherlock's back. "You could cuddle with me on the sofa."

Sherlock leaned into John's embrace, but didn't answer. John tried again. "I could open a bottle of wine and we could cuddle on the sofa."

Letting out the softest of sighs, Sherlock nodded and answered, his voice barely above a whisper, "Okay."

***

It was actually two bottles of wine and after the first glass, both were consumed alarmingly quickly. Sherlock lay tangled with John on the sofa, feeling pleasantly warm and loose. John played with his hair while he sipped at his last glass of wine.

"Better?" John whispered.

"Mostly." Sherlock's brain wasn't such a jumble anymore. The wine had taken the scrunched up balls of paper in his head and smoothed them out so he could read them again. "I'm sorry I'm so difficult to live with."

"Hey, you've got some pretty intense things going on right now." John said, his voice slow and deliberate as he tried not to slur any of his words. "We'll get through this."

"I just feel like I had the carpet ripped out from under me." Sherlock insisted. "I didn't get any closure."

"Yeah." John grew quiet, then asked, "What do you think you need for closure?"

"I've been thinking...." Sherlock said hesitantly. "What I'd really like to do is go back to the studio. Make it somehow not as scary or dangerous to myself."

"Don't think that'll be feasible." John said, frowning. "No way they let you back in. Besides, Moriarty would be there."

"Not if we go after they're closed up for the night."

"How do we do that?"

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to decide if he really wanted to do what he was suggesting. Finally, he answered, "I still have my key. No one asked for it back. As long as they haven't changed the locks, we can get in."

"And then what?"

"Maybe... I don't know, maybe I dance one more time and maybe it'll help erase the memories of Moriarty making me feel so small and helpless."

John continued to play with Sherlock's hair. "That could be incredibly dangerous."

"It could."

"You really think it will help?"

"I don't know. Nothing else has."

John heaved a sigh and pushed Sherlock to a sitting position. "Right, I'll get my coat."

"What?!" 

"If you think this will help, let's go. Now. Before we both chicken out."

"You sure you want to do this with me?"

"Oh, Sherlock." John smiled sweetly and brushed a curl off of Sherlock's forehead. "When are you going to learn that I would gladly walk into the flames with you?"

Sherlock, slightly unsteady on his feet, gathered his dancing things into a bag and shrugged into his coat. He checked to make sure he had the studio key with him and then they both left. They hailed a cab and John gave the address to the studio. It was a moonless night, so the dark seemed one step more intense than normal. Bright stars winked from the sky above, the only natural light source available. The cab driver didn't want to leave them in the industrial district where the studio was that time of night, but John insisted he go and slipped him an extra fiver to usher him on his way. Sherlock fumbled with the key until John shone his phone's flashlight at it. They both held their breath as Sherlock put in the key and twisted. The door swung open easily and Sherlock allowed himself to breathe. They ducked inside, shutting the door behind them, and switched on the lights of the studio.

Sherlock went immediately to the stereo and popped a CD he'd brought with them into the tray. Hitting pause before the song could start, he changed into loose shorts and a t-shirt and slipped on his dance slippers. He looked questioningly at John.

"What are you going to do?"

"Watch you dance, of course." John said, taking a seat on the bench that stretched along one wall. "I don't think I've ever seen you dance properly before. Just little warm-ups."

Sherlock blushed, but nodded. He went through a quick stretching routine, then went back to the stereo and hit play. Hozier's _Like Real People Do_ started, the first notes always reminding Sherlock of a lazy summer day spent rolling around in the grass. Sherlock arched his body and curled his leg around himself into a pirouette. The music soared as he lost himself in jetes and arabesques. He forgot his distress, he even forgot John. All that mattered was the music and the movement, his feet barely marking a sound as he landed after a jump. All too soon, the song came to an end and Sherlock sunk to the floor, arms extended. He waited a moment before looking up and meeting John's eyes.

John's mouth was partially open, completely in awe of Sherlock. He stood up quickly and began applauding, which caused Sherlock's cheeks to flush pink.

"That was amazing... simply amazing!" John said as he rushed to Sherlock, who had just stood up.

"Did you like it?" Sherlock asked shyly.

"Like it? I bloody well loved it!" John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's mouth that started out soft, but deepened into something desperate and questing. "You're fantastic and brilliant...." John gasped out between kisses. "...and phenomenal and so bloody hot, I want to rip your clothes off and take you right here."

Sherlock laughed into John's mouth and pulled away, his eyes dark blue with passion. "Why don't you, then?"

John stilled and his mouth curled into a slow, wicked smile. "Really?"

Sherlock's hands found their way to John's waist and he tugged sharply at the buttons and zipper. "Show me how much you want me, John."

Growling, John backed Sherlock up against the barre, pressing more kisses to his lips and down his neck as he tore at Sherlock's clothing. He fumbled the t-shirt over Sherlock's head and tossed it onto the floor, and then pulled the shorts down and over Sherlock's hips, freeing his rapidly hardening erection. John's hands roamed everywhere as he licked and sucked his way over Sherlock's chest and down his abdomen. Sherlock gasped as John pressed his face into his groin and teased his tongue around the base of his cock.

"This... doesn't seem very fair...." Sherlock panted. "You're still fully clothed."

Standing up, John nipped at Sherlock's lower lip. "Better fix that, then."

Sherlock needed no other prompting as he quickly divested John of his shirt, jeans, and underwear. They stood, naked, across from each other, drinking their bodies in. John's stocky, golden-skinned body seemed such a contrast to Sherlock's fae-like litheness. John held out his hand and took Sherlock's, guiding it to his cock.

"Touch me, here." He commanded.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the length of John and caressed lightly, almost teasingly. John's hips jerked involuntarily and he pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more, drinking him in.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock whispered, stroking John more determinably. "Tell me where you want me."

"I...." John's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "I want to feel your lips on me. I want your fingers inside of me."

Sherlock sunk to his knees, his lips stretching over the head of John's cock. He licked down the length of it and took one of John's balls in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

"Yes, just like that." John moaned, his hands gripping Sherlock's shoulders. "Now your fingers...."

Sherlock continued bathing John's cock with his tongue. He slid his hands over John's ass, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingers. Sherlock pressed one finger to John's puckered, pink asshole and eased inside to another groan from John. He worked his finger in and out slowly as he took John's cock in his mouth and bobbed his head, swallowing as much of his length as he could manage.

John let go of Sherlock's shoulders and braced himself against the mirror behind the barre. "God, Sherlock, that feels amazing."

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, sending vibrations through John's cock. He worked a second finger into John's asshole and stroked, brushing over John's prostate and drawing a low cry from him.

"I want to see you, Sherlock." John gasped. "Stand up, so I can see you."

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and licked the length of John's body as he stood slowly. He paused to flick John's nipples with his tongue, smiling at the short, panting whimpers that came from John's throat. Standing up, he met John's eyes and John cupped his cheeks in his hands.

"You're so beautiful." John whispered. "Do you know how beautiful you are to me?"

Sherlock shook his head, overwhelmed with the intensity of John's emotions.

"I want you to see how beautiful you are like this." John said. "Turn around, love. I want you to watch us together."

"Please, John." Sherlock felt his insides melt. "I want you inside me."

"I will be." John insisted. He bent to rummage around in Sherlock's bag and unearthed a bottle of lotion from the bottom. "Turn around for me, love."

Sherlock turned and realized what John meant. The mirror reflected the both of them together, their skin flushed with desire. He watched in the mirror as John spread lotion over his cock, and then felt a lotion-covered finger press into him. Sherlock gasped, but didn't close his eyes. He watched John's face in fascination as he positioned himself behind Sherlock and entered him in one, slow stroke.

"Yesss...." Sherlock hissed, keeping his eyes fixed on John. His hands gripped the barre while John's hands gripped his hips. "Faster, John."

"Oh, no." John smiled, continuing his long, slow strokes. "I don't want to rush this."

Grunting in frustration, Sherlock thrust back, trying to encourage John to pick up the pace. He was rewarded with a light slap on his ass, which made him giggle breathily.

"Look at your face, Sherlock." John whispered, his hips pumping steadily. "Look at how beautiful you are right at this moment."

Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror, noting his flushed complexion and his bright, shining eyes. His mouth was open in a pant and his entire body was open for John. He reached down with one hand and found his cock, hard and trembling, and began to stroke it. He moaned as John quickened his strokes.

"John...." Sherlock panted, his voice cracking.

"I know, love." John reached around and covered Sherlock's hand with his own and they stroked together. John's thrust grew deeper and faster. "Keep watching... I want to look into your eyes while we come."

Sherlock's brilliant blues met John's darker, indigo eyes as they danced towards the precipice together. His hips slammed against Sherlock's ass until, with a loud cry, Sherlock felt come spurt inside him. That was all it took for him to come, spilling seed over both of their hands. They rode the waves of orgasm together, bodies trembling and covered in sweat. Sherlock gripped the barre as it was all that held him up on his shaky legs. John remained pressed into him and he nuzzled Sherlock's shoulder.

"I love you." John whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Breath hitching in his throat, Sherlock thought that he would never grow tired of hearing those three words from John Watson's lips. John slipped out of Sherlock and turned him around, wrapping him in a hug.

"I love you, John." He nuzzled John's chest, reveling in the smell of sex and sweat. "More than words can say."

They stood like that, embracing and whispering affection to each other, until the sweat on their skin grew chill. Gathering their clothes, they both dressed slowly.

"Better?" John asked.

"Better." Sherlock said. "I feel like I can say good bye to this place now."

Just as they'd collected the last of their belongings to leave, the front door of the studio creaked open. Standing at the door, eyes dark with a mixture of rage and pleasure, was Jim Moriarty.

"Well, boys." He drawled. "This is a pleasant surprise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... cliffhangers are evil. Patience, my grasshoppers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation with Moriarty goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please be aware that this chapter features scenes of physical assault. Please proceed with caution if that is triggering to you.

Sherlock felt his body go numb as Jim slipped inside the studio. Next to him, John stiffened, eyes alighting in anger.

"Imagine my surprise," Moriarty said in a voice that was warm silk against the skin, a cold smile spreading across his face. "To get a call from the security company, telling me someone entered the studio, but didn't disable the silent alarm? What could anyone _possibly_ want in a dance studio?"

Clenching his fists, Sherlock tried to think of what to do. Moriarty stood between them and the door, leaning against the wall and looking at them both with his dark, predatory eyes.

"Imagine my even greater surprise, when I cracked open the door to see who could be inside, to find you boys at it. In my studio." The smile dropped and Jim paced closer to Sherlock and John. "Can't say as I blame you, John. Sherlock is a pretty little piece, isn't he? Wouldn't have minded a little bite out of that, myself."

Quicker than either of them could blink, Moriarty placed himself in front of Sherlock, far too close. He reached up and traced a finger over Sherlock's face . Licking his lips, Moriarty raked his gaze down the length of Sherlock's body. Rousing from his frozen state, John whipped his hand out and smacked Jim's arm away.

"Don't you fucking touch him, bastard!" He growled, pushing into Moriarty's personal space and nudging him away from Sherlock.

Jim turned his dark eyes towards John and narrowed them a fraction. "What makes you think you have any more claim over him than I do, little man?"

"John, don't." Sherlock whispered, his heart thumping in fear. The anger snapping between Moriarty and John was like an electric charge, causing the hair on his arms to raise. "He's not worth it. Let's just go."

"Oh, no, I don't think so." Jim said, darting a hand out and grasping John's wrist. "I don't think either of you are going anywhere."

The touch set John in motion. He glanced down at Jim squeezing his wrist tightly, then back up to his face. John's eyes sparkled with menace as he sniffed once and rolled his shoulders. Then he swept his leg between Moriarty's, connecting solidly with his ankle. At the same moment, he twisted his body in a way that allowed him to free his wrist. Jim cried out in shock and dropped to the floor. John became a man possessed, kicking and punching with brutal disregard, pushing Jim's crumpled body up against the studio mirror. He continued pummeling Moriarty, blows raining down with no mercy.

"John!" Sherlock cried, feeling the panic rising in his throat. He grabbed at John's clothes, trying to stop him, but John seemed likely to keep going until Moriarty was dead. "John, please don't! You're scaring me!"

The words penetrated John's fog of rage and he stepped back, looking over his shoulder to meet Sherlock's eyes. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his eyes still held that menacing light. Blinking a few times, he seemed to come back to himself. John looked back to Moriarty's body, curled on the floor, his face bloodied and bruised, eyes swollen almost completely shut. He held himself tightly and flinched when John took a step towards him.

"D-don't!" Moriarty whined. "Don't touch me!"

"Remember this, the next time you think about coming near Sherlock." John hissed, and then spat on him contemptuously before turning back to Sherlock. "Where's your key?"

Sherlock went to his bag and fumbled around for the key, handing it to John, who took it and tossed it on the floor by Moriarty. "We're done here. Get your things, Sherlock."

They left and walked in silence for a few blocks, John still radiating heat and anger. After awhile, Sherlock took a deep breath and broke the silence.

"Are we going to talk about what just happened back there?"

John swallowed a couple of times before answering. "I... I don't know."

Sherlock stopped and turned John towards him. "That was terrifying, John Watson. I didn't see _you_... couldn't see you. Your eyes belonged to someone else."

John's whole body sagged, the tension leaving him. He scrubbed a hand over his face and when he looked back at Sherlock, tears shimmered in his eyes. "I'm just so... so angry over how he treated you. How scared he made you feel."

"Is that all?"

"No." John turned his face away. "I'm angry that I wasn't able to protect you from that."

"John, I love you, but I'm a grown man. I don't need you sheltering and protecting me every minute of the day."

John looked at his feet and nodded. "I've mucked things up a bit, haven't I?"

"I think there are things we've both handled poorly with this situation." Sherlock said carefully. "That's the nature of relationships, isn't it? Muck things up, then put it all back together again?"

"You know I'd never hurt you like that, right?"

Sherlock stayed quiet and John frowned. "Please tell me, Sherlock, that you're not afraid of me now?"

"I'm not going to lie and tell you that didn't scare me, back there." Sherlock said quietly. He indicated that they should start walking again and they did, slowly, down the deserted sidewalk. "But I trust you, John. You've never given me any reason to not trust you."

"I would do anything to make sure you're safe and happy." John pronounced, grasping Sherlock's hand.

"I know you would. And don't think I don't find that at least a little romantic. But I would prefer if we'd act as a team, and not have you risk your life for me."

"Risk?" John scoffed. "Like he could have done anything to me!"

"You don't know that." Sherlock insisted. "That could have gone very badly back there. It could have been you on that floor, bleeding, and I don't think.... I don't...."

Sherlock gulped a few times, but couldn't finish his sentence. John reached up and ruffled his hair.

"It wasn't, though. It _isn't_. And I get it... I do. I'm sorry I scared you."

"Can we just put this all behind us now?" Sherlock said, leaning closer to John. "Please tell me we can."

John sighed. "I hope so. I don't know if that will keep Moriarty away or not."

"Do you think he'll retaliate after that?"

"He wouldn't dare." John growled.

"John!" Sherlock admonished, though in a teasing tone.

"Whatever happens," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "We're in this together and we'll solve it together, from now on. I promise."

"Fair enough."

When they reached home, Sherlock tended to John's battered knuckles before they crawled into bed together, exhausted. Sherlock exchanged a few sleepy kisses with John before drifting off to sleep in his arms.

***

The pounding at the door infiltrated Sherlock's dreams. He was sitting, alone, at a restaurant table, staring out at the dance floor. Moriarty stood there, beckoning him. The pounding took the form of rhythmic music being piped over the speakers; it wasn't until Sherlock opened his eyes and banished the dregs of his dream that he realized the pounding was coming from the front door of the flat.

"John." He mumbled, poking the snoring body next to him. "Someone's at the door."

Grumbling and rubbing his eyes, John slipped from the bed and padded to the door. He opened it to the stern face of a police officer.

"John Watson?"

"Uh...." John took a step back, eyes instantly growing wary. "Yes?"

"You're under arrest for the assault of Mr. James Moriarty...."

The rest was a blur for Sherlock. He leaped from bed, protesting loudly. A young officer stepped in front of him to keep him apart from John and Sherlock tried to dodge around him.

"Sherlock, it's okay!" John insisted. "I just have to go in and clear this up. I'll be _fine_."

The police allowed John to get dressed before they read his rights, cuffed him, and led him out of the flat. John remained eerily calm throughout, meeting Sherlock's eyes several times and silently reassuring him.

"This is all a mistake!" Sherlock cried, near tears.

"Sherlock, just stay in the flat, okay?" John called behind him. "Call Greg and stay in the flat. Don't go anywhere!"

Just like that, Sherlock was left alone, the flat door hanging open, the silence deafening. He rushed to the window and watched John being put into the back of a police car. The panic fluttering in his chest threatened to overtake him.

He turned and began pacing, running his hands through his hair until it was a bird's nest of curls sticking up in every direction. His eyes lighted on his mobile on the bedside table, laying beside John's. He grabbed it and unlocked it, fingers navigating to Greg's name and pressing the call button. The call rang several times before Sherlock heard the sound of his voicemail greeting. He disconnected and dialed again; still the voicemail. The panic inside grew and threatened to spill out. Sherlock touched his cheek and found it wet from tears he didn't realize were falling.

The walls of that flat felt like they were closing around him. Sherlock quickly dressed and stuffed his mobile into the pocket of his jeans. Remembering John's admonishment to stay in the flat, he waved those words away and reasoned with himself that he needed to find Greg. Or Molly. Or someone who could help him get John out of this mess. He'd need legal representation, someone good. Sherlock ticked all this off in his head as he made his decision. He left the flat, locking the door behind him, and went out to the street to hail a cab.

Sherlock's thoughts were too preoccupied to notice the van that parked outside the flat. Nor did he recognize James Moriarty's dark form with his cap pulled low over his face to hide the bruising and swelling left by his fight with John the night before. Though there were people on the street, they were all busy with their own lives and destinations to notice the tall, dark-haired man grabbed from behind, a chloroform-soaked cloth covering his mouth before he could cry out. They didn't notice the limping form of Moriarty loading Sherlock's unconscious body into the van and driving away.

They simply continued with their day, as if nothing at all important had happened.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty carries out his plan while John is detained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter features graphic descriptions of physical assault, as well as implied sexual assault. Please proceed with caution if you find this type of story triggering to you.

John spent the better part of the day being questioned by the police. He lost track of how many hours passed sitting in interview rooms, trying to tamp down on the anger and panic that kept threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn't stop worrying about Sherlock, his fingers itching to get hold of his mobile again so he could at least text Sherlock and let him know he was okay.

It was Greg who saved the day. John had been left in one of the interview rooms for what felt like an hour when the door finally opened and Greg sauntered in, hands in his pockets.

"Let's get you out of here, right?" He said, brandishing a key to unlock John's cuffed hands.

"Greg? What are you doing here?" John held up his hands, grateful to be rid of the cuffs digging into the skin at his wrists.

"Pulled a few strings." Greg replied. "Actually, they're done with the questions, but I hurried things on a bit. You're being released on police bail. They're not charging you with anything until they can investigate your claims of Moriarty's harassment, but you'll have to come back if they have more questions."

"Thanks, mate." John got up and clapped Greg on the back. "I was about to go spare in here. Can I borrow your mobile? I've got to check on Sherlock."

"Sure, no problem." Greg slid his mobile to John.

John grabbed at it like a lifeline and quickly typed out a text. It's John. I'm okay. Out on bail. Heading home now.

"Want a ride home?" Greg asked, holding open the door for John.

"That'd be great. Thanks again, Greg. This has been an absolute nightmare."

Greg nodded, his eyes hardening. "We'll get this stopped. I'm going to make sure of it."

John, concerned that his text didn't receive an immediate response, tapped out Sherlock's number. He walked past Greg and out of the interview room with the phone pressed to his ear. After a handful of rings, Sherlock's voicemail sounded in John's ear. Frustrated, he ended the call and cast a questioning look at Greg.

"Did Sherlock seem okay when he called you?"

"Called me?" Greg looked confused. "I haven't talked to Sherlock today. I got tipped of your arrest by someone who knew we were mates."

John furrowed his brow, his heart sinking. "This doesn't feel right."

He tried Molly next. She picked up a few rings in, her voice bright and cheerful.

"Greg! How are you?"

"It's John, actually. Just borrowed Greg's mobile." John felt his stomach sinking. "Have you talked with Sherlock today?"

"No, I haven't heard a peep from him. Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure. I'll fill you in later." John disconnected and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. Maybe Sherlock was in the shower or had misplaced his phone. It surely wasn't any cause for panic. He passed the phone back to Greg, who stood by him, concern etching his features. "I'll take you up on that ride, Greg. I'd like to get home as quickly as possible."

***

Claire de Lune. Why was he hearing Claire de Lune? Sherlock struggled to open his eyes. His vision came back slowly, fuzzy around the edges. His head throbbed and his throat was parched. He was stretched across a large, steel grey sofa in a minimally decorated flat. In front of him, a wall of windows offered a bird's-eye view of London. A set of glass doors interrupted the expanse of windows, leading to a balcony. The sky outside was overcast, late afternoon sun blotted out by clouds heavy with rain.

The flat itself gave off a cold aura, all sharp lines and hard, marble floor. The sofa was the only piece of furniture aside from barstools lining a bar that divided the living room from the kitchen. A set of shelves set in the wall held the stereo system from which the music emanated. Strains of classical music echoed through the flat as Sherlock tried to regain his senses. He sat up slowly, waves of dizziness threatening to overtake him. He worked to fill in the gaps of what happened; he remembered John being arrested, remembered going out to hail a cab. After that, his mind was a blank stretch of nothingness.

The sound of water running behind a door that presumably led to a bathroom alerted Sherlock he was not alone. Seconds later, the door opened and Moriarty limped out. His face still looked ghastly, covered in bruises and one eye swollen half-shut. At Sherlock's small gasp, he glanced up and a ghoulish smile split his face.

"Well, well." He said, his dark eyes glittering. "You're awake. Now we can have a little fun."

***

John felt Sherlock's absence the minute he walked into the flat, Greg following closely behind. It looked as it had that morning; bedclothes rumpled, wineglasses from the night before sitting beside the sink. John crossed the room to the bedside table where his mobile rested. Unlocking it, he found a text from Molly, but nothing from Sherlock. John squeezed his eyes shut, worry threatening to overwhelm him.

"Is there someplace he would have gone?" Greg asked, pacing around the perimeter of the flat. "Someone he would have called?"

"Me. He would have called me, if he could. Or found me. If not me, then Molly." John felt sick and sunk down on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. "Something's happened, Greg. I feel it."

"I'll call in a few guys," Greg muttered, stabbing at his mobile. "We'll start looking."

John's mouth stretched into a grim line. "Let's check the dance studio, first."

***

Sherlock bolted from the sofa, unsteadily careening in the general direction of the flat's front door. But Moriarty was quicker, stepping in front of him and pushing him back. Sherlock stumbled and fell backward to the floor, his breath expelling from him in one big whoosh.

"You'll hurt my feelings." Jim cooed. "Don't you want to play, Sherlock?"

Setting his jaw, Sherlock launched himself at Moriarty's legs, wrapping his arms around them and pulling to knock him off his feet. He crashed down beside Sherlock with a strangled cry of pain and Sherlock clawed desperately at the floor, trying to gain leverage and right himself. Moriarty rolled towards him, hands formed into claws. He raked them over Sherlock's face, nails digging in and drawing blood. Sherlock lashed out blindly, trying to push the hands away. Moriarty kneed him sharply in the stomach, sending waves of pain through Sherlock's body as he curled up in a ball. Panting, Moriarty climbed to his feet and stood over Sherlock.

"Feisty." He said between gulps of air. "I like it."

The front door opening provided a distraction. Moriarty glanced up to see Irene let herself into the flat.

"You're early." He said, wiping his mouth.

Irene took in the situation quickly, her eyes widening when her gaze fell on Sherlock's prone body. "What's all this?"

Sherlock took that moment to scoot away from Moriarty and sit up halfway. He met Irene's eyes. "Irene, please... I need your help."

His tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth and his words came out slurred, but Irene understood. Her eyes hardened as she stared at Sherlock. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd just taken my advice."

"W-what?" The last threads of hope snapped inside Sherlock. He gaped at Irene, uncomprehendingly.

Irene turned to Moriarty. "Isn't this a little excessive?"

He didn't respond, just twisted his mouth into a sneer and rolled his shoulder.

Sherlock took his distraction and tried to use it to an advantage. Feeling the effects of whatever drug Moriarty had given him fading, he pushed himself to his feet as quickly as he could manage and tried to bolt past Moriarty and Irene, to the open front door.

Moriarty, however, sensed his movements and slammed into him, his hand going around Sherlock's throat. He pushed him back, up against a wall. Though several inches shorter than Sherlock, he hid powerful muscles from years of dancing. This, combined with his maniacal rage, let him overpower Sherlock even as he struggled to break the hold. Moriarty's fingers tightened mercilessly at his neck and Sherlock gasped for breath, his fingers scrabbling over Moriarty's, trying to pull them away.

"Really, Jim. You'll kill him!" Irene came up behind Moriarty and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Think it through!"

Moriarty lunged towards her, catching her in a backhanded slap that drove her back a few steps. She gasped, clutching her hand to her cheek. Her eyes grew hard and angry.

"Get out." Jim hissed. "I don't need your advice."

Sherlock's vision shrunk as Moriarty squeezed tighter. Then he found himself flung to the floor again, where he sucked in great lungfuls of air. His vision cleared in time to see Moriarty aim a vicious kick at his leg and then all he knew was blinding pain. He heard the sickening crack of bone and his vision went white as he retched on the floor.

"Jim!" Sherlock dimly heard Irene cry out.

"Get out!" Moriarty roared, turning to her. "Get out of my sight!"

She must have left, because Sherlock heard the front door slam. He was too preoccupied with the throbbing pain in his leg. He moaned and tried to sit up, which was a mistake. His stomach heaved again as pain engulfed him.

Moriarty turned back at his cries and sniffed. He went behind Sherlock and grabbed hold of his collar, hauling him backwards. Sherlock screamed every time his broken leg moved, bones grinding against each other and leaving him in agony. He dragged Sherlock back on the sofa, treating his body as if it were nothing but a ragdoll. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he was reward with a sharp slap to his face.

"Oh no, you're not passing out on me." Moriarty drawled. "We've just gotten started."

Sherlock's skin was clammy and he idly wondered if this was what it meant to go into shock. He felt his mind separate from his body, from the immense pain in his leg. He was a disconnected stranger, watching Moriarty lean over him and fumble at the buttons of his shirt.

"We've got all the time in the world now." Moriarty whispered.

***

The dance studio was dark and locked up tight. John turned to Greg, helpless and a half second away from losing his mind.

"I don't know where else to look." He said, his breath catching with a sob. "I don't know where he is."

Greg checked his phone once more, face grim. "No word from the guys I have out looking."

"I think I can help."

The voice emerged from the shadows, followed by Irene, who approached them cautiously. John's eyes flared as he realized who she was.

"What have you done with him?" He cried, making a move towards her, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I didn't know it would go this far." Irene said, a faint bruise colored one half of her face. "I wouldn't have protected him if I knew what he was capable of."

John felt like a caged animal, rage building in his stomach as he paced in front of Irene. "Where is he? What has that monster done to him?"

Irene shrank back from John's anger, darting her eyes to Greg. "I let him stay in my flat. Just while he recovered from the beating you gave him. I didn't know...."

Greg, sensing that John could explode at any moment, stepped forward. "Give us the address. We'll deal with you later."

Biting her lip, Irene seemed to contemplate her choices. But finally she sighed and withdrew a small clutch bag, from which she took out a card stamped with the address of an elite apartment building. Wordlessly, she passed it to Greg.

"C'mon." Greg said, already putting the phone to his ear. "I'll call in some back-up."

"What about me?" Irene asked, watching them leave.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll go in that studio and stay there until I send someone to pick you up." Greg snarled behind him.

As John and Greg got into Greg's car and screeched from the curb, careening into London traffic, the skies opened up and it began to rain heavily.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg run to Sherlock's rescue... but are they in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please note that this chapter contains graphic violence and a character death (not John or Sherlock). If this is triggering to you, proceed with caution.
> 
> Also, for those who are having a hard time with the grimmer part of the story, this will be the last chapter of this particular story arc. The remainder of the story will focus on Sherlock's recovery. Thanks to all who've stuck with me during the rough parts!

  
_Sometimes even to live is an act of courage._  
\- Seneca

Everywhere. He felt Moriarty's hands everywhere. Felt as though he peeled back his skin and delved inside. Sherlock floated away where he couldn't feel Moriarty's touch anymore. Floating, floating towards darkness. Floating towards peace.

***

The car wouldn't move fast enough. Traffic backed up in the pouring rain and it took all of John's self-control not to leap from the vehicle and run the last few blocks himself. Greg passed him his mobile and instructed him to call paramedics, just in case. John felt the lump in the pit of his stomach go from molten lava to a hard lump of stone.

Irene's flat was in a high-rise complex, modern with its glittering glass and hard angles. Greg didn't bother finding a parking spot, just pulled on the pavement in front and flung open the car door. John, already a step ahead of him, bolted towards the entrance, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his feet on the rain-soaked concrete the only sounds he could hear.

He tried the elevator first, punching at the buttons with unsteady fingers, but after what seemed an agonizingly long wait, he gave up and pushed through to the stairwell. He dimly heard Greg behind him, panting.

_Of course she has to live on the top floor._ John thought grimly.

Adrenaline propelled him further upwards and he shoved the door to Irene's floor open with his shoulder. The hallway seemed to stretch and warp like something out of a horror movie. The door to the penthouse suite was at the end of the hall. John paused for only a moment, allowing Greg to catch up with him, before they both careened down the hall towards the door.

"Do we knock?" Greg gasped, still breathless from climbing the stairs.

"Fuck knocking." John growled.

Together, they moved as one, throwing both of their weights against the door. They thudded against it, felt a slight give. Another thump and the hinges protested. Once more and they burst into John's worst nightmare.

Moriarty stood over Sherlock's naked and broken body, his hands....

John couldn't process what his hands were doing. Didn't want to process what they were doing.

He barely registered Moriarty's widening eyes as John let out a raw scream of rage and launched himself towards the sofa. He connected with Moriarty, shoving him from Sherlock and towards the bank of windows that looked out over London.

John became a mad man; clawing, ripping, punching, kicking. He hit places he'd hit the night before, enjoyed the cries of Moriarty's pain.

"John!" Greg caught a handful of his jacket and yanked him back, hard. "Don't get yourself in worse trouble!"

John wanted to fight. Wanted to keep hitting Moriarty until he turned his flesh into nothing but a mass of blood and tissue. But he also needed to go to Sherlock. Sherlock... was he even still alive? He let Greg pull him away and he whirled around to lean over Sherlock's body. He grabbed for a blanket and covered him so Sherlock wouldn't wake up and find himself exposed to everyone. John felt for a pulse and let out a gasp of relief when he found it, thready, but there.

"Sherlock." He whispered, stroking his hair back. His hands came away bloody from the wounds on Sherlock's face. John sobbed once and then tried to swallow back his tears. "Sherlock, it's me. You're safe now."

Moriarty struggled to sit up. He spat a mouthful of blood that may have included a tooth or two and grinned at John and Greg. "He'll never be safe. Every time he looks at you, he'll think of me. Think of my hands. I think he liked it, Johnny. Liked the feel of my fingers on his skin. You could join in, if you want to."

Greg stood between them, casting a look of disgust back at Moriarty. "No, John. The police will handle it."

John tried to blink back the curtain of red that stained his vision. He turned back to Sherlock, trying to distract himself by cataloging Sherlock's injuries in his head.

Greg had his mobile to his ear as he dialed the police. He must have looked away to check his watch because neither of them saw Moriarty struggle to his feet. Didn't see him get one of the heavy stools at the kitchen bar. John only noticed him as he came at him, stool raised, face twisted into a horrific grimace. If his reflexes hadn't been as sharp as they were, Moriarty might have succeeded. Instead, John leapt towards him first, knocking him off course. The stool went flying, but instead of crashing into Sherlock, it went the opposite direction and crashed into the long line of windows. As John pushed Moriarty back and Greg shouted at them both, the glass cracked, then shattered. A spray of glass hit both John and Moriarty; John barely felt the sting of glass cutting his skin as he fought to gain control over Moriarty.

The rain poured in from outside, slickening the marble floor as they grappled together. John couldn't hear what Greg was screaming over the pounding rush of blood in his head. It was only when his foot slipped on the wet marble that he realized he'd been cautioning him to be careful, so close to the edge. They both fell, sliding with the momentum of their struggle. John watched Moriarty's face go from crazed to terrified as inertia carried him through the gaping maw of glass and into oblivion. Had the broken window led to the balcony, he would have survived, coming to a stop against the wall outside. But instead, his body seemed to hover over the lights of London for one breath, maybe two. And then he was falling, falling, falling, his high-pitched screams torn away by the relentless wind and rain. John's body, too, slid towards the edge of the building, glass grinding into any exposed skin. He flailed, trying to slow his momentum, squeezing his eyes shut at the inevitable. The edge grew ever closer and John spared one last thought for Sherlock. Sherlock, whole, undamaged, looking at him from their bed on Baker Street. Sherlock, loving him with all his heart. Sherlock.

John jerked to a stop, his legs dangling out over nothingness. Greg stretched out on the marble floor behind John, his hands full of the fabric of John's jacket. His eyes were wide and panicked, his skin bleached bone-white in fear.

"Got you!" He gasped, yanking John back so his legs no longer dangled outside.

John pushed himself back further, panting, his heart juddering painfully in his chest. He left streaks of blood on the floor from the glass that dug into his skin, but he barely felt it.

"Sherlock." He wheezed, feeling dizzy and close to passing out. "He's hurt."

"Yeah, and so are you." Greg pulled him to his feet and helped him limp to the sofa and sit down next to Sherlock.

John accepted another blanket without a word. He felt himself going numb from the shock. "M-Moriarty...."

"A splatter on the pavement." Greg spat. "And the world better off for it. There're police dealing with it down there."

At that moment, the paramedics came through the door, loaded down with equipment. The next stretch of time passed in a blur of tests and examinations. John protested loudly when they took Sherlock's body out on a stretcher without him, but Greg promised they'd follow behind.

Greg had to practically hold him down at the hospital while a nervous intern picked out every sliver of glass in his hands and then cleaned and bandaged them.

"I need to go to Sherlock!" John kept insisting, the panic never quite leaving him.

"He's in surgery, John." Greg reminded him. "You wouldn't be able to see him, anyway. They've got to fix his broken leg."

The police wanted to talk to John, of course, but Greg stood his ground and refused.

"I'll interview him. Later." Greg insisted, glaring at his superiors. "He's been through a traumatic experience."

Something in Greg's eyes must have convinced them not to push it as they left them alone after that. John's other scratches and bruises were examined, treated if necessary, and soon he and Greg found themselves in the ICU waiting room. John knew the doctors and nurses were talking about them, by the way they gathered in clumps and talked in hushed whispers as they cast furtive glances towards them.

Greg tried to get John to eat while they waited, but John couldn't force down more than a few bites of the cafeteria food. The clock seemed to tick slower with each second that passed.

It wasn't until a few hours later that a doctor approached them, his face serious.

"John Watson?" He asked, and John sat up straight and nodded.

"I normally won't talk to someone unless they're family." The doctor - his nametag read Dr. Barrett - said. "But Mr. Holmes has no one listed as family and I know you're a doctor here in this hospital. I'm making an exception... don't make me regret it."

John waved away his words of caution. "How is he?"

"The good news is, the break in his leg wasn't severe. We didn't have to put any pins or rods in, just set it and put it in a cast. However, we did have to do a little reconstruction on some of the ligaments in his knee. He will recover... but it will require a lot of work."

John felt a wave of relief wash over him. Not severe. Recovery. These were words he wanted to hear. "He's a dancer." He said, knowing that's what Sherlock would ask if he were there.

Dr. Barrett heaved a sigh and rubbed his face with his hand. "His ability to dance in the future depends on him. He won't be dancing any time soon. Intense physical therapy and time to heal will determine whether he will dance again."

John nodded. He didn't care as much about the dancing, but he knew how much it meant to Sherlock. "What about his other injuries?"

"Nothing too severe. We stitched up the wound on his head. He may have a little difficulty talking for awhile; his larynx is swollen from the strangulation. But it will heal, as well."

"Can I see him?"

"He's not conscious. It will be another hour or so until he is. But you're welcome to go in. I want to keep him overnight and see how he's doing in the morning. Then we'll talk healing strategies."

John nodded again, trying to process everything thrown at him.

"He'll, uh...." Dr. Barrett shifted uncomfortably. "He'll probably need therapy, to deal with... what he went through."

John closed his eyes, feeling sick at the memory of seeing Moriarty with his hands all over Sherlock's body. "Yeah. I'll... I'll make sure he gets help."

***

Sherlock was in a single room. It was dimly lit and quiet, but for the soft beeps of the machines monitoring his heart rate. He looked small and lost in the hospital bed, his skin covered in bruises and vivid red finger marks. John's legs threatened to give out, but he forced himself to remain standing. He leaned over Sherlock and brushed a hand over his cheek. It was cool and dry, but provoked no response from the still-sleeping Sherlock.

Greg pulled a chair close to the hospital bed and guided John to sit down. "Might as well get comfortable. Sounds like it'll be a bit of waiting. I'm going out in the hall to call Molly and fill her in."

The moment John sat down, the weight of the day came crashing over him in one, huge wave of exhaustion. Though he fought against it, sleep overtook him and he dozed, the steady beep of Sherlock's heart monitor lulling him deeper into slumber.

He didn't know how much time passed when he woke, but the room grew lighter as the sky outside brightened into day. He blinked a few times to clear his fuzzy vision. His tongue felt swollen and coated in fuzz, the sour taste of his mouth causing him to grimace. As he sat up, stretching and wincing at the pain of his stiff muscles, his eyes flicked to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were open and watching him. A shaky smile upturned the corners of his mouth as he met John's gaze.

"John." His voice came out in a hoarse scrape that made John flinch in sympathy.

He stood up and went to Sherlock's bedside, fumbling for his hand. "I'm here, Sherlock."

The shaky smile tried valiantly to stay, but then Sherlock's face crumpled and he began to sob brokenly. "John."

"Shhh... shhhh...." John leaned over and pressed his forehead lightly against Sherlock's. "I'm here. I'm here for you. I'm so sorry, my love. But I'm here now."

Greg cracked the door open, but stopped when he saw the tableau in front of him. He watched John comfort Sherlock for a moment, and then backed out, closing the door gently. He turned to Molly, who had just arrived. "Let's leave them alone for now."

Molly nodded and let herself be folded into a hug, resting her head on Greg's chest. "Are they going to be okay?"

"I don't know." Greg murmured, his chin skimming the top of Molly's head. "I hope so."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is discharged from the hospital and John takes him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight gap in my usual update schedule! I've entered the busy season with my business and have been too exhausted to write in the evenings. Rest assured, the stories won't be ignored... the updates just might be a little slower.

John wouldn't let the police interview Sherlock. Despite protestations, he insisted on relaying the facts himself and shielding Sherlock from reliving all of it. At first the detectives assigned to the case pressed the issue, but Greg had just enough pull with the right people to get them to back off. John hated to leave Sherlock's side, but even Greg couldn't get the police to forego John's interview. Laying out the facts took the better part of the day. Irene, too, had been brought in for questioning and there were mutterings of filing charges.

In the end, all charges against John were dropped. The right favors had been called in, because it looked more and more likely that Moriarty's death would be ruled self defense. John didn't care whether Irene was charged or not. She'd already lost everything. Not only was her star teacher dead in scandalous circumstances, but the dance company's board had convened in an emergency meeting and Irene had been fired. The company was in disarray and in danger of closing, but John didn't care. All he cared about was getting Sherlock home.

Sherlock hadn't spoken much since waking up. John didn't press him. He stayed at the hospital as long as the doctors would allow. He'd arranged for time off work until Sherlock went home. Which would be soon, as he was, physically, healing quickly. Sherlock had been fitted for crutches the day after his admittance to the hospital. Now the only thing left was to set up a schedule for physical therapy and counseling. John hoped Sherlock would open up to him a bit more when they were out of the hospital and in more familiar surroundings.

In an effort to be helpful, Molly offered to clean John's flat and make sure it would be easy for Sherlock to get around. John gratefully accepted, too overwhelmed with everything to have thought of that small detail. He felt grateful his flat was on the ground floor. There were stairs leading from the outside, but luckily there was also a ramp to make the building handicap accessible. John would have to get used to thinking about these things, at least for a little while.

***

After he was done with the police interviews, John returned to the hospital where Molly waited with Sherlock. She slipped into the hall as John approached.

"He's still not talking much." She said, pulling a face.

"Yeah, I think it's going to take a while to get him to open up."

"How'd the interview go?"

"I think everything's going to be fine." John dragged a hand through his hair. "If anything, they'll just have to ask me more questions later. But I think Greg's got them convinced that Moriarty was a scumbag."

"Well, he was." Molly crossed her arms and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "John, I want to help."

"You are helping! You stayed with him while I couldn't be here."

"Yes, but I want to help _more_. I was thinking... you're going to have to go back to work eventually. What if I came over and stayed with Sherlock while you were gone? He could come with me to the studio where I give lessons, too. Might do him good, getting him out."

John chewed his lip. "I don't know how he'd feel being in a dance studio."

"I know it'll be rough at first, but don't you think it might help him, eventually? He'll need to stay active once he's started physical therapy."

John nodded. "You're right, I know you're right. Look, I'm taking a day or two to get Sherlock settled and then I'm back at work. Let me see how he is at home and then we'll make a decision. But I appreciate the offer, Molly."

She agreed, dropping the matter for the night. John waved good bye as she walked down the hall and he slipped back into Sherlock's room, where Sherlock slept lightly. The television was on with the volume turned low, casting flickering light across Sherlock's still-too-pale skin. John sank into the chair by the bedside and settled back for another long night.

***

The doctors deemed Sherlock well enough to discharge the next morning. As is usually the case, actually discharging him took until late afternoon. Greg had the day off, so he showed up with his car to take them both home. Sherlock had to awkwardly stretch out his leg on the back seat to fit in the car. John took the front seat next to Greg. He tried to make small talk on the drive home, but eventually they lapsed into silence.

John hovered around Sherlock as he maneuvered up the ramp on his crutches until, finally, Sherlock snapped.

"John! I will be _fine_! Just give me some room to breathe!" He snapped, stopping halfway up the ramp.

John backed off. "Sorry... I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry!" Sherlock's voice grew shrill. "Stop treating me like I'm going to break into a million pieces!"

John exchanged a glance with Greg, who looked uncomfortable. "Okay, Sherlock. I'll just... follow you up in a bit, then."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and began the slow process of climbing the ramp. Greg sidled up to John.

"I'm going to take off, mate." He said. "You two going to be okay?"

"Yeah, we'll be fine. There's probably going to be more blow-ups like that one, but we'll be fine."

Greg left and John slowly followed after Sherlock, slipping quietly in front of him to hold open the door and not saying anything as Sherlock struggled to lift himself over the small step up in the doorway. It was a relief for both of them when they finally made it into the flat. Sherlock stumped over to the couch and lowered himself gently into a seated position.

"The doctor said you should keep your leg elevated as much as possible." John said. "Want me to find something for a footstool?"

Sherlock nodded grateful, leaning his head back. His face looked pale and John thought he must be in more pain than he was letting on. He dragged a kitchen chair over to the sofa and put a pillow on top of it. Then he helped Sherlock lift his injured leg up and rest it on the pillow.

"I'll get a proper footstool tomorrow." John promised. "Do you want anything to eat?"

Sherlock shook his head, not opening his eyes.

"What about a pain pill?"

"No." Sherlock hissed between his teeth.

"Can I do anything?"

"JOHN!" Sherlock burst out, lifting his head and aiming a glare directly at John. "Would you leave me be for five minutes?"

John clenched his jaw tightly and stood up, nodding. "Right. I'll just... go out for a run, then. You've got your mobile if you need anything?"

Sherlock took a few deep breaths and nodded. "Just go."

John quickly changed into running clothes and snagged his running shoes on the way out. As his feet pounded the pavement, he built up a head of steam over Sherlock. All the anger and sadness and pain and frustration flooded over him, leaving his skin hot and prickly. He blinked, hot tears stinging his eyes. As he ran, John willed all the negative emotions to flow out of him. He flung them away with each stride, determined not to let Sherlock push him away.

He stayed out for over an hour. On his way back, he stopped in and picked up a curry for their dinner. When he walked back into the flat, he faced a panicked Sherlock on the sofa. His eyes wide, his face even paler, Sherlock gasped audibly when John walked in.

"I... I thought you weren't coming back!" Sherlock said, his breath hitching in his chest. "I thought you'd left me."

John set the bag of food on the table and rushed to Sherlock's side. He squatted down, stroking his hand over Sherlock's cheek. "Hey, no... you know I wouldn't leave."

"I was horrible to you! I've been horrible to you this whole time... I haven't spoken to you and... and...." Sherlock bit back a sob, his breath coming in gasps. He tried to lever himself up, but fell back on the sofa as his arms gave out.

John moved around Sherlock and sat beside him, taking his hand and wiping at the tears tracking down Sherlock's cheeks. "I'll never leave, Sherlock. I promise. You can be as horrible as you want and I'll always come back."

"But I shouldn't be horrible! You've been so good to me and you... you saved me... from...."

"Shhh. You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to." John soothed. "And you can yell at me all you like, if it'll help."

Sherlock let out a choked laugh. "No, it doesn't help. It makes me feel awful."

"Well, then, don't yell at me!" John teased. "Seriously, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere. I went for a run and yes, I was angry when I left. But I ran all my anger out and I brought back curry. Does that sound good?"

"It does, actually. I didn't realize I was hungry until you brought it in and I smelled it."

"I'll dish us both up some, then. Want a pain pill to take with dinner?"

"I don't want one... but I think I need one." Sherlock's face remained pinched, a sign of the pain he fought to ignore.

"Coming right up, then!"

John dished up the curry and handed Sherlock a glass of water and a pill. He switched on the TV and put it on a movie, with the volume turned low.

"You don't have to be this way, you know." Sherlock said between mouthfuls of food.

"What way's that?"

"You don't have to be so nice to me all the time. You can yell at me, too. I know I've been awful to you. Ungrateful. Moody."

"I think you have good reason." John said. "I'm not going to yell at you, Sherlock. Don't you think you've been through enough? I'm here to make sure you get better."

Sherlock blinked back tears again and reached out for John's hand. "I don't know how long that will take."

"It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't know...." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I don't know if we'll be able to ... you know...."

"Is that what you're worried about?" John asked. "Do you think that's all I want from you? No, Sherlock... no. I love you more than I can express. I'm not going to force you to do anything until you're ready. Even if it takes a long time. You've just been through a horrible trauma!"

"You went through it, too." Sherlock pointed out.

"Not in the same way." John reached out and smoothed a curl over Sherlock's ear. "Any time you're uncomfortable, you let me know. If you need me to back off, I will. Are you okay with me being this close?"

Sherlock nodded, too overcome to speak. He squeezed John's hand.

"We'll make it through this. Together. Right?"

"Together." Sherlock whispered, a wavering smile spreading across his face.

They returned to eating, John bumping up the volume on the TV so they could use the movie as a distraction. They watched TV for a couple of hours until Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open. John helped him to the bathroom and, while he changed into sleep clothes, John pulled out the bed and cleaned up their plates.

"Do you want me to sleep on the floor?" John asked as he helped Sherlock into bed.

"No!" Sherlock looked horrified. "I couldn't ask you to do that!"

"I would, if you aren't comfortable with me sleeping next to you."

"No, I want you. I need you, John."

John smiled, relieved. "Right, then. I'll get changed and be right there."

They fell asleep nestled together, John's hand resting lightly over Sherlock's waist. The painkiller Sherlock took had him asleep almost instantly, his breathing deep and undisturbed. John pressed his nose against Sherlock's hair, inhaling the scent of him. He fell asleep soon after, comforted by the weight of Sherlock resting against his chest.

***

John woke to thrashing and screaming. The flat was dark, the streets outside quiet. Sherlock let out a keening scream as he threw his arms out, batting at an invisible foe.

"Sherlock!" John sat up and shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Wake up, you're having a nightmare! Wake up!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a great gulp of air. He blinked a few times, finally focusing on John's face.

"John." He gasped. "I... I was back at... I was... his hands...."

John blanched, knowing what Sherlock had been dreaming. "It's okay. It was a nightmare. He's gone, Sherlock. Dead. Never coming back. He can't hurt you anymore."

John pulled Sherlock to him in a hug, rubbing his back until his body stopped shaking. Sherlock pressed his face to John's shoulder and his hand tangled in John's hair.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered.

"No apologies." John said firmly. "There's nothing to be sorry about. Do you want to sleep, or should we just lay here and talk for a while?"

"Tell me a story?" Sherlock asked in a small voice. "I need something to distract myself."

John helped Sherlock settle back against him again. "Okay, a story? How about I tell you about this one New Year's Eve when I met this completely hot ballet dancer and he kissed me?"

Sherlock let out a giggle. " _He_ kissed _you_? Wasn't it the other way around?"

"Mmm. Maybe." John said, teasingly. "But whatever the case, that kiss set off fireworks."

"Ah, it was the kiss, eh?"

"Sure it was. And then the dancer ran away and he didn't come back for five years."

"That was kind of rude."

"Very. But he made up for it."

"Yeah? How?"

"By being amazing. And fantastic. And brilliant." John punctuated this by kissing the top of Sherlock's head with each compliment.

Sherlock turned to look up at John. "Do his kisses still set off fireworks?"

John stilled, a question in his eyes. "I'm not sure... do you want to find out?"

"I think I do." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his chin up slightly.

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm-hmmm." Sherlock breathed. "I want to replace all the bad in my head with something good."

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock gently, bring his hand up to cup his chin. He didn't push too hard, just kissed him lightly and then pulled away. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he smiled.

"Well?" He asked.

"Fireworks. Every time." John said softly, running a thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. "Was that okay?"

"Better than okay." Sherlock replied. "I think I can sleep now."

"Good." John settled back and let Sherlock rest his head on his chest. "Close your eyes and sleep, love. I'm right here."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are driven apart along the painful road to recovery. Will they find their way back to each other?

  
_Entre deux cœurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles._  
\- Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

John woke to thrashing in the middle of the night. Sherlock struggled in his arms, his cries growing louder and louder.

"Sherlock!" John shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Sherlock!"

He worried that Sherlock would injure himself if he didn't wake up. His body writhed, his face screwed up into a grimace. His nails dug into John's skin when John tried to hold him down.

In the end, he had to straddle Sherlock's bucking body to keep him still as he yelled at Sherlock to wake up. Sherlock's eyes opened wide, his last scream dying before it fully escaped his mouth.

"No, no, no---JOHN!" Sherlock gasped, his hands instinctively wrapped around John's wrists. "I... I was...."

He couldn't finish the sentence because he'd started crying. Great heaving, gasping sobs that cut John to his heart. He climbed off Sherlock carefully and pulled him close.

"Shhhh," John soothed. "It was just a dream. He can't hurt you anymore."

"Will I ever feel normal again?" Sherlock asked through his tears, his voice muffled as he buried it in John's shoulder.

"Of course you will... of course."

But even as he said it, John didn't know if he believed it.

***

The first night was only the beginning. The nightmare came back night after night. Sherlock lost weight, his already thin frame taking on a gaunt appearance. The interrupted sleep left his eyes dark and sunken. He went through his days in a fog of sleep deprivation and anxiety.

John returned to work after the first week, gratefully accepting help from Molly and Greg to make sure Sherlock wasn't left alone. Between the three of them, it worked, but John found himself distracted at work. He made mistakes - easy mistakes - because all he could think about was getting home to Sherlock. The long hours at work coupled with interrupted sleep left him feeling sluggish, as though he was constantly walking through cobwebs.

He grew edgy and irritable over Sherlock's unpredictable moods. John never knew whether he would find clingy, sad Sherlock or angry, shouting Sherlock when he arrived home. Even worse were the apologies afterwards, Sherlock's wheedling for John to forgive him. John felt a ball of angry spite form in his stomach directed at Moriarty. The psychopath took Sherlock's inner strength and confidence with him and John didn't know how to give that back to him.

Therapy sessions started shortly after John returned to work. He offered to attend them with Sherlock, but in the end, Sherlock chose solo therapy. Once a week sessions left him even more moody than usual as he was forced to confront the thoughts he kept trying to shove out of his mind.

Their relationship became strained. John found he had to remind himself that this was the man he loved, not just someone broken he was trying to care for. He began looking for a therapist of his own, thinking it might help if he got rid of some of the anger he carried around constantly.

This became their new routine: anger, fear, sadness. Nightmares, exhaustion, therapy appointments. John stepped back from the rugby team to care for Sherlock, which caused a huge row one evening when Sherlock found out. The first time John brought up ballet, he was floored by the rage directed at him by Sherlock. They tiptoed around each other and in this way, they lost their footing.

It was the night before Sherlock's appointment to - finally - remove his cast and go to his first physical therapy appointment. They were eating dinner in the flat - noodles from a local Chinese takeaway. John buried his nose in a medical journal while Sherlock fiddled with a pair of chopsticks.

"I was thinking." Sherlock said, breaking into John's concentration. "Maybe I should move back with Molly for a bit. While I work on my recovery."

John's world dropped out beneath him. The journal shook in his hands as he looked up, startled. "What?"

Sherlock's face turned pink, his eyes downcast. "Only... it's just not working out, is it? Us?"

"Sherlock... I...."

"No, John." Sherlock held up his hand to quiet John. "I don't want you to comfort me. Not anymore. I think... I think I need to move out. For a while. It doesn't mean it will be forever."

John heard his words, but he knew they were lies. Sherlock wanted out. He'd known the day would probably come when he would lose interest, but he hadn't known it would be so soon. He swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump of emotion forming in his throat.

"I-if that's what you want." His words came out pinched and short. "I'll take your things back to Molly tomorrow."

"It is." Sherlock whispered. "It's for the best."

"Right."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Yeah... me, too."

***

John went with Sherlock to get his cast off, even though Sherlock insisted he didn't need to. It turned out to be a mistake. The air between them was thick and hard to breathe. John couldn't think of what to say. The cast came off and Sherlock's leg, shriveled and pale, was pronounced healed. John tried to say good bye as Sherlock was whisked off to physical therapy, but the words wouldn't come out.

"You'll take my things to Molly's?" Sherlock asked as the doctor ushered him away.

"Yeah, I will."

"Thanks. She's picking me up after physical therapy so... good bye, I guess."

John couldn't say it back. Sherlock looked hurt and turned away, disappearing through the door and out of John's life. As the door clicked closed, John's words came back to him.

"Don't go," he rasped, hot tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill over. He pressed his hand, closed tight in a fist, to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. "Sherlock, don't leave me."

***

The rugby team welcomed him back, even though he played with a little less enthusiasm. Another new routine: work, rugby, running, sleep. When he remembered, he ate something. Everything tasted of cardboard. He went to the new therapist and listened to her hollow words about moving on, about letting go.

The nightmares visited him. Without Sherlock solidly beside him, he dreamed of finding Sherlock in Moriarty's flat, dead. He dreamed of Sherlock flayed open, his heart exposed for all to see. He dreamed of Sherlock deciding he preferred Moriarty's cold touch. He dreamed of Moriarty finishing with Sherlock and coming after him. He dreamed of becoming Moriarty himself. He woke, alone, the strangled screams still caught in his throat. And then it became easier not to sleep at all. To fuel himself on coffee and move through his day by instinct alone.

Occasionally he glimpsed Sherlock when he went to his physical therapy appointments. The first few times were like a knife straight to the heart. After that, he knew when to avoid the area. Sherlock never saw him, or if he did, he pretended he didn't.

***

Weeks crept by, and then months. John's new routine became habit. His therapist suggested keeping a journal; this helped. John slept again, the nightmares kept at bay because he wrote about them in his journal. He wrote about loving Sherlock, too. He wrote about missing him. That would never change, he knew that deep in his soul. Writing it all down helped clear his mind. He found peace on the sidewalks of London, when he went for late night runs until his muscles were hot, burning ropes and his mind emptied completely.

He went out with Greg for dinner, but he refused to talk about Sherlock. Greg tried to broach the subject, but John shut it down immediately.

"I don't want to know." He insisted, forking ravioli into his mouth.

"I see him sometimes, you know. When I go over to Molly's." Greg tried again.

"It's over, Greg. Change the subject."

After being stonewalled too many times, Greg gave up. They talked of rugby, of Greg's upcoming promotion. Greg told John that charges were being brought against Irene.

"Good." John said fiercely, his eyes going hard as steel. "But I don't want to talk about that, either."

"You might have to testify, you know." Greg pointed out.

"Do you think so?" This rattled John. Would Sherlock have to testify? He wouldn't survive that... would he?

Greg saw how distressed John was. "I think it's more likely she's going to be offered a plea deal."

John relaxed. That would be good for all of them. "She deserves to rot in prison."

"She won't, if she takes a plea."

"I know." John scowled at his dinner. "It'll be okay, though... that's better for Sher-- it's better for all of us."

Greg looked at John, biting back a knowing smile. "Yeah, probably."

***

John's team hosted the boys' and girls' home again. Arch joined in the game this time and John noticed his form had vastly improved.

"Good job out there today." He said to the boy as they packed up equipment afterwards. "Been practicing?"

Arch shrugged and gave him a sideways glance. "Nah, not too much."

"You must be doing something." John prodded.

Arch mumbled something that John didn't quite catch.

"Say again?"

"Um, I'm taking some lessons... uh...." Arch flushed. "Just some, uh, dance lessons."

John froze. He heard Sherlock's voice, clear as day, in his head: "He'd be a better rugby player if he took some ballet lessons."

"Oh, okay." John tried to play it casual. "You taking them from Molly Hooper?"

Arch nodded, ducking his head as he stuffed his things into his bag. "It's nothing, really."

"Well, whatever it is, it's working." John hoisted a bag of equipment over one shoulder and ruffled Arch's hair. "Keep it up."

"He misses you, too, you know." Arch blurted out and then slapped a hand over his mouth, his face turning beet red.

John tensed. "What's that?"

From behind his hand, Arch's voice was muffled. "Sherlock. He misses you. A lot. He says he's okay, but I don't believe him."

"You see Sherlock?"

Arch dropped his hand, but his eyes remained cautious as he looked at John. "He comes to most of the classes now. He's not at full strength, but he can dance a little and he helps Molly teach."

John lifted his chin. "Ah, well... that's... good. Yeah, that's good. He probably likes that."

"I wouldn't know." Arch said, bitterly. "Sherlock doesn't like anything anymore. Except for you. I think that's why he's such an insufferable arse."

John's mouth twitched and he tried to hide his smile. "That sounds like Sherlock. How do you know it's because he misses me so much?"

"Because one time Miss Hooper said 'For God's sake, Sherlock, why don't you just call John? He's probably just as miserable as you are.' And Sherlock went so white I thought he was going to pass out. And then he called Miss Hooper some names that I can't repeat because you'd get me in trouble for saying them."

"And she put up with that?"

"Nah, she got in his face and told him not to take it all out on her and then he went in the back and sulked the rest of the night."

"He does that." John should've been upset by this news, but for some reason, his heart felt lighter than it had in months.

"So are you going to see him, then?" Arch asked. "Only, I think he would be a lot nicer if you did."

"It's not that easy, Arch." John said ruefully. They started walking to the equipment shed. "Sherlock's got to decide for himself if he wants to see me. He's the one who decided he didn't, in the first place."

"Ugh, adults are weird." Arch huffed, holding the shed door open for John. "If this is how I have to act when I grow up, I don't want to do it."

"Don't blame you, kiddo." John locked the shed and then shooed Arch ahead of him. "Look, your bus is here. Go back to the group, okay? And keep up those dance lessons."

Arch jogged away, turning around to jog backwards for a few paces. "Think about it, Mr. Watson! I think you miss him just as much as he misses you!"

John watched Arch jog back to the other group of children. He smiled crookedly. "Maybe so, Arch. Maybe so."

***

"Where are you off to with a cheesy grin on your face?" John asked Greg after practice.

"Molly and I are celebrating!" Greg said, his grin widening.

"Oh yeah, what are you celebrating, then?"

"She just got accepted to a new ballet company. Pretty prestigious one, too."

"Well done!" John stopped, his mind working. "Just her?"

Greg's smile faded by a few watts. "Thought you didn't want to know."

"I don't."

"Okay, then."

"Fine."

"I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, later."

Before Greg left, he turned and looked John in the eye. "He got in, too. He's fully recovered and able to dance almost as well as he used to. There were three companies fighting over him and he chose the one in London, so he didn't have to move away."

John didn't know how to respond, so he just nodded, his eyes bright.

"They're having an exhibition next week, to welcome in the new arrivals. Each new dancer will be doing a solo. You should come - I've got an extra ticket."

"That's... convenient."

"Yeah, well...." Greg looked at his feet. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Dancing a solo, huh?"

"Come with me, John. If you don't want to be seen, we can sit at the back."

"What if he sees me anyway?"

"You won't know what'll happen until it happens."

John sighed and squinted at the horizon. "Yeah, okay. Let's go, then."

"Really?"

"Go on, before I change my mind."

The grin returned full force and Greg gave a mock salute before leaving John to make his way back to his flat.

***

The new ballet company was housed in a studio at least three times the size of Irene's company. It was attached to an old theater, which was where the exhibition was being held. John rode to the theater with Greg. He'd had a week to prepare himself for what could happen, but he still felt like a bundle of nerves.

"What if he doesn't want me there?" He asked suddenly. "What if he feels like I'm invading his space?"

"He won't." Greg insisted. "I've had the privilege of being around him over the last year. The man's miserable without you."

"But what if he changes his mind?"

"I've already told you, we can sit at the back. If you don't want to see him in person, you don't have to. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do."

"But?"

"But you're a fool if you don't take this second chance."

John swallowed and fiddled with his tie. He wore a steel grey suit with a black shirt and a silvery-blue tie that had reminded him of Sherlock's eyes when he saw it in the clothing store.

The theater was packed with people. Greg's promise that they could sit in the back went unfulfilled as the only seats left were three rows back, in the center. John nervously thought about leaving, but Greg clamped a hand on his wrist and led them to their seats.

A tall man in his forties came out on stage. His chestnut hair was held back with a tie and fell in a ponytail part-way down his back. He wore black dance leggings over an emerald green short sleeve leotard.

"Good evening, ladies and gentleman." He said, a warm smile setting his eyes twinkling. "I am Victor Trevor, the artistic director for the Royal English Ballet Company and I'm pleased to welcome you to our exhibition, to showcase the new talents we've accepted into the company this year."

Each dancer was introduced with a short interview and then they performed a solo dance. John, distracted, barely paid attention to the dancers that leapt across the stage. He kept his eyes on the edge of the stage, hoping for a glimpse of dark curls or the flash of blue eyes.

Molly's turn on stage came quickly. She smiled through her interview and then spotted Greg in the audience. Before she began her dance, she gave a tiny wave to both John and Greg, and then proceeded to dance a solo piece from Coppélia. Afterwards, the audience roared with delighted applause and Molly grinned, her face turning pink with pleasure.

"When's he on?" John hissed to Greg, as another dancer took to the stage.

Greg shrugged. "I didn't grab a programme."

A short intermission soon gave them time to stretch their legs.

"Maybe I should leave." John tugged at his tie, which had suddenly become too tight. "I can take a cab."

"Nope." Greg held his arm in a death grip. "C'mon, Watson. You're made of sterner stuff than this."

The first dancer after intermission was Sherlock. John's breath caught in his throat as he saw his familiar, narrow body standing ramrod straight at the edge of the stage. He wore leggings and a short-sleeved leotard like Victor Trevor's, though his leotard was white, which proved to highlight the curves and muscles of his chest and back. Though he was obviously stronger than he'd been a year ago, John thought Sherlock still looked too thin. His face appeared calm and serene, but John thought he detected strain behind that facade.

"Our next dancer is Sherlock Holmes." Victor said into his microphone. "Sherlock joins us after a year spent recovering from an accident that resulted in a broken leg. How has the recovery been?"

Sherlock's voice echoed out over the audience as he spoke into the microphone. "It's been long and difficult. I wasn't sure I would dance again."

"Yet here you are!" Victor smiled at the audience, who laughed appreciatively.

"Yes, I love to dance and after I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I realized that I couldn't end my dance career like that."

"Wonderful! And did you have people to help you through that recovery?"

"I have a small circle of friends, who supported me throughout, as well as an excellent physical therapist." Sherlock took a deep breath. "And then there was someone who helped me the most, but I don't think he's here tonight. I'm dedicating my dance to him."

John felt a thrill go through him. He dimly felt Greg poke him in the ribs with a sharp finger.

"Very well, then. Does this person have a name?"

"John. John Watson. He was a very dear friend and, even in his absence, I felt his support."

John shivered at the sound of his name on Sherlock's tongue.

"It's wonderful to have that kind of support. Congratulations, Sherlock. What will you be dancing tonight?"

"Original choreography." Sherlock said. "By myself."

"Perfect. Off you go, then."

Victor faded off the stage and Sherlock took his mark. This time, a contemporary song began playing.

_Yes I do, I believe, that one day I will be where I was right there, right next to you._

Sherlock started slowly, taking mincing steps across the stage, his body held straight and his arms arched above his head.

_And it's hard, the days just seem so dark. The moon, the stars, are nothing without you._

He lifted his leg, the leg that had been broken, slowly until it pointed almost straight up, then brought it down, curling it around himself as he did a series of pirouettes.

_Your touch, your skin, where do I begin? No words can explain, the way I'm missing you._

John felt the tears prickle behind his eyelids. He gripped the arms of his seat so hard his knuckles went white. He couldn't look away from Sherlock, who had tossed his head back before sinking into a plie, then launching himself into a grande jete, leaping higher than John had ever seen. He landed gracefully on the stage, not making a sound. That was when he looked into the audience and his eyes connected with John's.

If their first kiss had been fireworks, this connection of gazes was white-hot lightning that burned so intensely that John thought he might go blind from it. Sherlock stumbled slightly, but covered it up quickly. He broke the connection, but not before John saw the small smile flit across his face.

_Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside. These tears, they tell their own story. Told me not to cry when you were gone, but the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong._

The dance continued, Sherlock's body relaxing into a fluid motion as he jeted and pirouetted and a number of other moves John couldn't name. As the song reached its apex, Sherlock's dancing became filled with a passionate longing that John felt echoed in his own heart.

_Can I lay by your side? Next to you, and make sure you're alright? I'll take care of you, I don't want to be here if I can't be with you tonight._

Now Sherlock sank lower to the floor, practically crawling across it in supplication. He rolled to his feet and leapt into the air again.

_I'm reaching out to you, can you hear my call? This hurt that I've been through, I'm missing you, missing you like crazy._

Sherlock finished the dance in a series of ever-quickening pirouettes, until his body seemed to be a blur of motion.

_Lay me down tonight, lay me by your side, lay me down tonight, lay me by your side. Can I lay by your side? Next to you. You._

At this last lyric, Sherlock folded himself to the floor, stretching his arms out until he was face down and folded practically in half. The music faded and, as it did, the audience in the theater surged to its feet, the roar of applause almost deafening. John stood up, too, clapping and trying to see over the person in front of him.

Sherlock climbed to his feet, helped by Victor who came out to the center of the stage. Sherlock bowed deeply, his chest heaving from the exertion of the dance.

"Beautiful. I'm sure you all see why we've chosen Mr. Holmes to join our company. I think he has a bright future with the Royal English. That, ladies and gentleman, is our exhibition. Thank you all for coming and good night."

Victor led Sherlock off the stage and the crowd began to leave. John looked around a little frantically, trying to figure out how to get through the crowd.

"He's not going anywhere." Greg insisted. "Just take it easy."

"Did you see... he was so...." John couldn't find words again, so overcome with emotion.

"That dance was amazing." Greg said. "And it was all for you."

John suddenly realized something. "Flowers! Aren't you supposed to give flowers to dancers? Oh, God... I'm so unprepared."

"He doesn't want flowers, you git." Molly came up to them, emerging from the crowd. She still wore her leotard, but had shrugged a light jacket over it. She looped her arm around Greg and turned her face up for a quick kiss. "He just wants you."

The crowd had thinned and John saw Sherlock standing a few feet away from them. His hair was damp with sweat and slicked back off his forehead. He stood, stiff and straight, and looked directly at John. His face was pale and pinched again; his hands twisted together and he bit his lip anxiously.

John pushed past Greg and Molly and walked towards Sherlock until they were toe to toe. He lifted his chin to stare into those familiar blue eyes, the eyes he loved so much. He swallowed and found his throat suddenly dry.

"Hi." Sherlock whispered, his voice coming out in a hushed squeak. "Hi, John."

John's nostrils flared as a year's worth of anger, sadness, and bitterness washed over him. He thought, for a moment, he might punch Sherlock. Thought he might turn around and walk away, leaving Sherlock behind forever. But as quickly as it came over him, those feelings drained away and he was left with one bright, clear memory: New Year's Eve, Westminster Bridge, and the young man who kissed him and made fireworks go off in his head. And with that memory came others; meeting up again five years later, their first date at Angelo's, that awful moment when he'd walked in on Moriarty kissing Sherlock and then the glorious make-up sex that followed, Sherlock dancing to Uptown Funk to cheer him up, Sherlock on the rugby field, Sherlock dancing for him the first time and then after.... John stopped himself from remembering further, pushing it away to focus on Sherlock, and only Sherlock.

"You prat." John said, even as a smile lit his face. He took Sherlock's hands, stilling them. "Is that all you've got to say to me? 'Hi'?"

With that, Sherlock melted in relief, his body visibly relaxing as John tugged him close and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips. He kept it light and gentle, but Sherlock shook away John's hands and buried his fingers in John's hair, deepening the kiss, his lips crushing against John's in a desperate, aching connection. John sucked Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth, scraping his teeth lightly across it. His arms went around Sherlock's waist. John felt dampness on his face and realized Sherlock was crying silently. He broke the kiss and they rested their foreheads together.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" John whispered. He was vaguely aware of people milling around them, but he didn't care. "Do you know?"

"Not half as much as I missed you." Sherlock said, his voice catching on a sob.

"You could have stayed. I wouldn't have left you, ever. I would have stood by you no matter what."

"I know." Sherlock reached up to swipe tears from his cheeks. "That's why I had to go. I had to get ugly, John, before I could get better."

"But I could have helped."

"No, I had to do it myself." Sherlock insisted. "And I didn't want you to see me that way. I knew it would change how you looked at me and I couldn't stand it."

"And now?"

"I'm... better. Not perfect."

"You're perfect to me." John insisted.

"No," Sherlock laughed. "No, I don't want you to see me as something perfect. That's what M--... that's what he saw. I just want you to see _me_."

John stared into Sherlock's eyes, their foreheads still together. He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulder. "I see you, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes and a shiver ran through him. "I know you do. I know that now."

They broke apart, but held hands. Sherlock scrubbed the last of the tears from his face.

"So what now?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Dinner?"

John laughed. "We can do dinner. You need to put on some weight, anyway. And you can tell me what I've missed."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Not the rough stuff."

"Yes, the rough stuff. All of it... or as much as you can stand. I'll tell you what _you_ missed."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"Deal."

Molly and Greg came up behind them. "We're taking off." Greg said. "Figure you two might want some time alone."

John nodded grateful and they said their good byes. Sherlock left briefly to say good bye to Victor Trevor, who shook his hand and gave a friendly wave to John.

"That guy on the up and up?" John asked suspiciously, nodding to Victor.

"He's a good man." Sherlock said. "And a good friend. His husband's pretty nice, too."

John felt himself relax. "Good... I'm glad you found a place to fit in."

Sherlock smiled, his face finally losing that pinched, anxious look. "This will be a good place to finish out my career. I thought I might like to teach, after I retire. Maybe focus on teaching troubled children, give them a creative outlet."

"I wonder who could have inspired that?" John teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled even broader. "He's not so bad once you get to know him."

"He's the one who got me thinking about you, you know." John said.

"Really? That brat... I told him he wasn't allowed to talk to you about me. He's going to have to pay for that."

"Don't be too hard on him." John linked his arm through Sherlock's as they walked out of the theater. "I might have kept on being stubborn if not for him."

"Mmm." Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll have to thank him, then."

They caught a cab together and, after exchanging a glance with each other, John directed the driver to take them to Angelo's.

***

Recovery is an ongoing process. John knew he and Sherlock wouldn't fall back together as perfectly as before. At least not immediately. They'd both been broken and now, like a broken teapot, their pieces fit back together a little crookedly, with the occasional chip missing here and there.

Even so, life became exponentially happier after that night at the ballet. They moved slowly, once more, going on dinner dates and savoring their romance as if it was the first time all over again. They shared their stories of the year apart, each one taking on the other's burden and helping lighten the load. Recovery continued. John still went to his therapist, just as Sherlock did. He still kept his journal. The nightmares stayed away. Sherlock danced with his new company, rising quickly to a star position. John played rugby and finished his residency.

The first time they slept together after they'd made up, they both cried. Not in fear or in anger, but in the relief that this sacred coming together hadn't been ruined by the pain and trauma of the past. Their bodies still sung at each other's touches and caresses. Afterwards, they fell asleep, limbs wrapped around each other, in John's bed in his tiny flat. Sherlock stayed every night after and that was how he, once again, moved in with John. They talked of getting a bigger flat, but Sherlock insisted that could wait. They'd have years - no, decades - together to decide all that.

They laughed a lot. They spent time with friends. They watched movies on the sofa while John massaged Sherlock's feet after a long day at the studio. They ate curry and Chinese take-away. They fought, over silly things and serious things, and when they made up afterwards, they became stronger each time. They kissed each other, every day and often. And each time, John was transported back to New Year's Eve, Westminster Bridge, the night his life changed for the better. Each time they kissed, John still saw fireworks.

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who has stuck around and read this story! Ballet!Lock and Rugby!John is one of my favorite AUs in the fandom and I've greatly enjoyed writing this story, even during the rough bits. I hope you all enjoy the way I've chosen to wrap it all up. Oh, and in case you don't recognize the song Sherlock dances to, it's Sam Smith's _Lay Me Down_ , in my opinion one of the most beautiful songs ever sung, and one that makes me think of Johnlock, always. Thanks, especially, to my lovely fandom wife, best friend, forever squish, kindred soul, artist extraordinaire, and the best beta-fish a writer could have, [theglitterypotato](http://theglitterypotato.tumblr.com) (aka MrsDeGoey). Without her encouragement, stick-poking, fangirl flailing, beta reading, storyboarding help, cheerleading, and constant reassurance that I don't suck, this story would not have ever been written. I thank the gods every day for putting her in my path! <3
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, I hope you'll check out my other fics and let me know what you think of them! And, of course, you can always track me down [on tumblr](http://cleverwholigan.tumblr.com)! :)


End file.
